


Fair Game for Fate

by roraruu



Category: Fire Emblem Echoes: Mou Hitori no Eiyuu Ou | Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Alternate Universe - Vampire Slayer, Blood and Gore, Character Death, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Getting to Know Each Other, Implied Sexual Content, Repaying Debt, Self-Harm, Slow Burn, Suicide, Swearing, Violence, Vomiting, and a truck load of fucking trigger tags bear with me lads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:42:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 37,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22414186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roraruu/pseuds/roraruu
Summary: In a different Valentia, Silque is devoted to protecting Novis from the undead. But when a cleric is killed and fang marks are found on her wrist, Silque is sent to hunt down the local, dormant vampire who lurks in the shadows of the island. And strangely, she finds an unwitting ally with the one she's sent to kill...
Relationships: Python & Silque (Fire Emblem), Python/Silque (Fire Emblem)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19





	1. Forget Me Nots

**Author's Note:**

> i started writing this in late september/oct of last year and posted it as wips on my fic blog. It took forever to get up bc i lost two rounds of edits on it, took a major hit to my ability, personal garbage and academic commitments but it’s here now.  
> a pdf of the entire fic and an exclusive one shot is available on my ficblog through my profile, pls download it if u wanna cry abt vampire lukas with me, i literally had a breakdown in starbucks when i realized how to fit him in
> 
> final thing, a friend of mine, Taz, actually drew a piece inspired by vamp au and shit bitch there isnt a day that goes by that i dont think of it. its really dorky to say but its a dream come true for my little weeb heart. https://hiimtaz.tumblr.com/post/188044281727/vampire-au-semi-inspired-from-these-wips-by

The ship from the mainland arrives late at night to Novis. It is sticky and hot, much different than Rigel and even the southern warmth of Zofia. Silque had fallen asleep on the boat over, a trip that took upwards of a week along rocky waters and treacherous winds that threatened to send them back to whence they came. Many on the boat wondered if their beloved Earth Mother had abandoned them.

Young Silque is pulled from sleep by the gentle hand of her mother. Her voice is quiet under the din of prayers of the sicks and moans of hungry people. “It’s time to move.” People loudly gripe and complain when they will be let off the boat. Rubbing sleep out of her tired eyes, Silque sits up. Her mother carefully checks over her face, as she’s always done. Her head tilts into the light and her mother’s thumb meets her tongue, wiping away what her tired hands missed and a dribble of drool from the corner of her mouth. 

Her mother gives her a gentle, comforting smile as she takes her hand, holding it tightly. Silque stares at the floorboards of the boat, still unsure of their journey’s intent. Why did they have to leave their church in the north? She had friends there and loved the cool air and running between the crops of grapevines that the church made wine out of.

Silque had been lived in the north for all her life, making her Rigelian by birth. In the first five years of her life, she had only known the Rigelian frontier and Duma’s blessings and meadows that churchgoers were never to leave. Her mother was a cleric in the faith, and abruptly in the night, roused her from her bed and took only one bag of provisions and marks. They had run from the church and to the Zofian border, crossing through as a displaced cleric and her daughter.

She’d asked her mother multiple times, and with every passing question, the answer got hazier. The first time, her mother had claimed it was just to collect donations and supplies for the church. Then it became a quest for enlightenment from Father Duma. Then, she’d mentioned someone named Mila… She had said the name fervently, as if she were angry and confused at the same time. Finally, her mother had said it was a pilgrimage. When Silque asked the meaning of the word, her mother had tiredly sighed and said it was a divine task sent to them from the Father.

“It is a pilgrimage to find a new home.” Her mother had said longingly. “Mother Mila will care for us from now on.”

The poor girl couldn’t understand the danger of the Faithful, and that the church she had been born in, lived in, played in, wished for her to become a Faithful one day and enact an unholy injustice upon the world. This pilgrimage wasn’t for supplies or donations or enlightenment—it was to survive.

“This will be our new home.’ Her mother says. Her gaze is cast off, over the stern of the boat, where they begin to dock. There is a rush towards the gangplank, but the cleric and her daughter wait. She clutches Silque’s hand tightly. 

“But what about Rigel, Mother?” Silque asks quietly. Her eyes go wide at the rush of people to get off the damned boat. She feels a hand on her head, clutching at the edge of her hair. It was cut before they left for Rigel, her mother saying that excess led to depravity. Her own hair had been cut too, and she eventually donned a long veil, covering from the arch of her brow to the middle of her back.

Silque stares at the white robe her mother wears. It is dirtied from their march. “Dearest, I ask that you forget of Rigel.” She says softly.

“But what about our journey?” She asks, confused by this sudden change of direction. Her mother had said that they were passing into Zofia for only a short period of time and then returning to Rigel. From there, Silque had thought, they would return to the church her mother worked at and return to normal life: life before this great pilgrimage that had both worn them out so.

Softly, her mother speaks into her head. Her voice is soft and honeyed but firm—a stern tone that she had heard only when she had been playing in the vineyards for too long or forgot to take care of her daily chores. “Our journey as ended. And now Father Duma wants to reward us for our dedication to him.” She says quietly. Her voice dips even lower, almost to a whisper. “But you must not mention Rigel, or the Father.”

“But why?”

“All I can say is that it will be for the best, dearest.” Her mother replies, the sternness from her voice fading and becoming... fearful. Her mother’s arm comes around her small frame tightly, the embrace is haunting. It too tight, almost taking the breath away from the child. She smells of sweat and dirt, the scents that reminded Silque of their long pilgrimage across Rigel and Zofia.

For a moment, fleeting and brief, Silque thought of life back at the church. Of the other children she played with and met, of the prayers to Father Duma she'd given, of all the happiness she and her mother had there. Her mother... she'd always looked bright and happy, offering any help she could to anyone. Often, she remembered her mother, exhausted from healing or praying or listening to the confessionals of Rigelian soldiers who had turned up through the night. And yet, all that time at the church her mother had managed to put on a smile and work ever harder, as if nothing were wrong. But now... Now that was resolve and power was gone. And in the stead of Silque’s mother, a woman stood, another being crippled by the war that the Divine Dragons had inflicted on their poor people.

A sailor yells something at Silque and her mother, something she cannot hear fully. Her mother cries out something back and pulls Silque up by the arm. They join the flock of people trying to get off the boat. Her mother’s grasp is tight and smothering and Silque stares at the wood panelling of the boat’s interior, trying to commit it to memory. Their feet shuffle along moving from the boat to the gangplank and onto solid ground. It’s the first time they’ve met actual earth instead of rickety water for weeks. Her legs wobble and give out.

“Silque, please keep up.” Her mother pleads, pulling her to her feet. 

Just as she’s getting up, some man is at her mother’s neck. She lets out a perilous scream, frightening Silque to the bone. “ _ Let go of my mother! _ ” She screams at the man, thrashing her tiny hands on him. “ _ Give her back! _ ” 

The man pulls himself from her mother, staring back at Silque. Her blood freezes as she notices how red his eyes, his lips too. He looks like a monster from the storybooks back in the church. 

“Fine, take her.” He says, releasing an iron grip on her mother. She crumples to the ground, her veil falling away so that her dark blue hair falls on the ground.

“Mother? Mother please, are you alright?!” Silque cries out and falls to the ground. She shakes her shoulder.

Her eyes are cloudy, glassy as if Silque’s face doesn’t register in her mind. Her eyes swirl with amber as she shallows back a breath. 

“Hush...” She breathes shakily. 

“Mother? Can you hear me?” She asks.

“Go... to the priory... on the top of the hill.” Her mother’s hand grasps the grass, tearing up earth with a deft movement. “I cannot make it, go Silque,”

“I will not leave you!” Silque cries out. It is the last words she will tell her mother.

Something else comes out of the woods, throwing her mother to the side as she lets out an inhuman hiss. Silque screams, lunging for her mother.

But then, she hears the voice of an angel speak to her. “Go! To Mila’s shrine!” It hisses, almost masculine but not quite human either. She barely gets a glimpse at the owner of the voice—a red eyed angel or demon, she cannot tell. It wears a dark cloak over its shoulder and holds her mother under a tight grasp. She wants to scream, to cry out but cannot manage either. 

Then, he is thrown off and lets out a deep hiss. What used to be her mother is now something else entirely. It is not human, it is not her kin. It lets out a guttural hiss, lunging for her. The other creature comes out of nowhere and tackles her again, raising his claw hand to slash at her. 

It—her mother—cries out.

“ _ Go _ you idiot!” He screams at her. Movement is restored to her body and Silque takes off with a running start, setting eyes on a spire at the top of the hill. She feels claws on her back, nails dragging her towards the priory. 

Her shoes catch in the mud, sucked away as she trips uphill. Her blue dress, a pretty hand-me-down from a local family back in Rigel, is dirty and bloodied. She can hear the creature and her mother thrash and fight downhill, and she does not dare to turn back. The sun is rising and that monster that was her mother clambers behind her like a toddler still attempting to understand walking. Silque can see stone posts, marking the entrance to the priory. They look ancient. She pushes herself as fast as she can, hearing the guttural noises from her mother. She trips, a hand on her ankle. 

Her mother’s. She lets out a panicked scream, trying to grasp at the Earth as if it will do anything. She cries out again. “Mother, please!” 

The thing only screeches again, eyes bright red with fury. Silque’s tiny hand reaches for the pillar, pulling herself towards the priory. The smooth stone is warm against her cold palm, pulsating energy through small frame. Her mother’s body contorts, her spine going ramrod straight as she lets out a terrified wail. Silque clambers backwards, further into the gates of the holy as the sun begins to rise. Her mother does not come any closer but she fears she will.

Lights go on behind her. People are coming. _ Duma be blessed! _ She thinks and then cries out for help again and again. In between cries, she pleads for her mother to come back. She looks for the creature that thrashed around with her, tackled her mother but he is nowhere to be seen. Her angel is gone. 

“Mother, please!” She cries out again, then feels hands on her back. Someone is dragging her. She thrashes against the faceless grasp and sobs for her mother.

A priestess holds her close, staring on in terror as Silque sobs. A man with a long beard hurries out past her, casting black magic ahead. Her mother’s body goes ramrod straight again, like a marionette ripped skyward by the strings. She lets out an inhuman scream of pain and fury. Then, with another mouthful of ancient tongues and pressure on her temples, the gates in front of the priory erupt in high peaks of holy fire. The stone posts are scorched and her mother screams out in pain. The flames never seem to end, nor do the screams.

Silque falls silent, watching as her mother writhes in the dirt and ash and refuses to die. Whatever she’s become, she is beyond mortal comprehension. That is, until the sun finally peaks through the clouds and Silque watches as her body degrades into ash, her clothes left behind. The man—no—the sage who held her in holy flames braces himself against the posts. When the sun is brightly shining down he calls out for the priestess that held Silque down to come and help him get rid of the body. 

The sage stops speaking, instead his eyes falling on Silque who stares at the pile of ash and bones that is her mother. “Dear child, you look terrified.”

Silque only realizes now that tears run down her face. She sniffs them back, avoiding the sage’s gaze.

“Do not tell me that was your mother,” he says woefully. 

She can only nod. 

“Do you have a father? Siblings?” He asks. 

She shakes her head. Her voice is far from her. 

“What is your name, dear?” He asks, sinking down to her level. 

“Silque.” She manages. 

“Dear Silque,” he says. “Our priory will care for you from now on.”

“Is this the Earth Mother’s house?” She asks. 

He nods. “One of her many homes.” He lifts a silver chain off of his neck. “Here. Wear this. The Mother will always be with you this way.”

She shies away for a moment, eyeing the necklace. “It is a holy relic that will protect you from all evil.” He says. “As long as you believe in the Mother, it will protect you until the day you leave this world.”

Her tiny hand clasps around the relic tightly. There are grooves and words worked into the metal. It is warm and throbs with energy. Slowly, she clasps the relic around her neck and hears soft singing in her head that somehow calms her down.

“May you always walk in the light of Mila’s blessing.”

Mila, the Earth Mother... Duma is nothing to her now. She had no use for the blessings and relics back at the church. In fact, this priory was to be her new home. And her mother’s instructions spoken quietly just moments ago on the boat over, take effect. Rigel was nothing to her. In fact, it is dead to her.

It didn’t take Silque long to adjust into the daily life of someone at the priory. She was not the only orphan—another child, just a baby—had been left behind by a mother. In the passing years, Silque would help to raise her and act as a close friend. But she was never a sister or confidant. She kept people at arm’s length, too afraid and shattered to become close to someone else. 

* * *

Silque easily began to fit in with the redundancy of daily life at the priory. Rise at dawn, prayers to the Mother, chapel on certain days, and listening to confessions if needed. The elder clerics and priests would go into the town to help with the wounded and nurse the sick. The younger ones would stay back and maintain the grounds, working in their meagre gardens, making clothes and other sorts of handiwork.

The vampire—that’s what Sage Nomah had told her what her mother became—died. The ashes of its body and clothing were thrown into the sea, never to rise again. Thankfully after that night, Novis seemed unbothered by them for a long, peaceful time. And as the years passed, Silque found herself surrounded by more followers of Mila, and her life in Rigel had become little more than a dream.

The priory also acted as a school to mages and sword fighters. Sage Nomah posed the question of her path when she was only 13. And dutifully, Silque asked to start training as a cleric. Learning white magic is easy, but her conviction to follow her departed mother’s wishes, helps it along. With every lesson, every injury she heals, she offers a smile. It’s easier to force one than muster haphazard words of comfort.

When Silque turns 14, the Princess of Zofia and her handmaiden, Mae, arrive to the island. It is by Mila’s

divine decree that her children be trained in her magics and blade. Slowly, the princess, under the alias Celica, gathers a group of guards to protect her on the island.

It is when she is 16 that she begins the rites of a cleric. It is a long and arduous journey that takes years to complete. Silque had been healing for years, ever since she’d arrived at the priory. The idol room is shut up and Genny had cried into her dress, thinking that she was going to go away. 

Silque kneels before the idol, eyes shut and praying softly to Mila. She feels the warm glow of her magic, flowing through her veins as she speaks to her and raises a blade—a Rigelian dagger that had been her mother’s --to her hair. It is the symbolic gift to the Mother, payment to walk this path. 

Her hair almost reached the middle of her back—it had not been cut since the night they’d left the mainland. Silque gathers her hair into one hand, raises the blade with the other and with a swift movement, cuts it away. Her locks fall limp in her hand, the blunt edge of her hair barely reaching the nape of her neck, the edge of her jaw. It is short. It feels... freeing, like a weight of guilt and despair is gone from her conscience. 

“Grant me your power, Mother Mila. Guide me down the path of the righteous and divine. Make me a cleric.” She begs into the still idol room. The eyes of the idol beat down on her as she offers her hair at the feet of the idol, returning to her prayers. As she does, she hears the relic around her neck gently speak to her.

“ _ Child of Light, you will always have the Mother’s favour and love. _ ” 

* * *

It is when Silque is 21 that another vampire comes to Novis.

A cleric is found on the edge of the island staring lifelessly at the blue sea sky. Her body is discovered under a weeping willow tree, by a tiny river that runs through the island. A young fisherman came forwards and finally told the clergy of what had happened. He was her lover and they arranged to meet the night before, but she never arrived. Instead, the poor girl had been killed by a vampire, perhaps some mighty justice befell her as punishment for taking a lover. Such is a sin in Mila’s eyes, as her clerics and priests were to be committed to her before another. But divine judgement is cast aside when they inspect her body and find bite marks along the side of her neck.

Sage Nomah knows what it is. Silque does too. With Mila’s increased fragility, Terrors freely roam the land. Not just zombies and Necrodragons, but vampires too. Souls who have been buried wrong or bitten by another walk the land. A vampire’s. 

With woeful intent, Nomah asks that Silque hunt down this creature and bring it to a rightful end; and Silque, being the selfless woman she is, agrees to it. With time, Celica’s handmaiden and another mage-in-training, Boey, are called to help too. Early in their hunting career, Genny is asked to stand before the holy posts and guard the priory. It proves unnecessary, as the vampire does not come near the southern parts of the island. The vampire keeps close to northern sections where the graveyard is.

Night after night, Silque retreats to the forest, checking for signs of otherworldly life. But nothing ever comes of it. That is, until she sees a red eyed demon in the bush and the tatters of an army cloak. Another night, she sees the cloak closer, catching details of a slash through the centre of the back where the crest of the Zofian royal family rests.

It is close enough to make Silque conjure a handful of black magic. It is a vampire. Perhaps the same one who killed the cleric. And by Mila’s will, Silque takes off towards it.

* * *

Silque swears she’s got him this time.

Her boots thunder against the forest floor. Her hands glow with black magic, lighting the forest up with a dull glow. In her mind, the sounds of angels roar, demanding the vampire’s head in her blessed hands. On her lips, she mouths to the Mother for this night to end quickly and in her favour. 

Silque keeps her eyes ahead, focused on the slashed commander’s cloak. How sick—it goes right through the crest of the royal family. She wonders if it’s intentional or a mistake. It was more than likely stolen from a nobleman or soldier in the army. Maybe even off a dead body. The demon she’s chasing looks like a beggar, dresses like one. She half expects him to turn up at the priory’s door asking for alms or food. But she knows that could never happen. He would sooner sink his fangs into their wrists and drain them like he did to that cleric. 

His clothes tear as he darts through thorns and sea brush. She runs through it too, her robe catching on the plants as she pulls herself ever forwards, as she has always done. She sees him hesitate, something she should do. He could easily kill her right here and now, just turn back, lunge and sink his teeth into her. She knows she is his prey and that she should be worried. She knows that her life is in peril every night that she comes from her chamber and prepares to run him off from the town and priory. But he always runs away from her. He never turns around and sinks his teeth or claws into her skin. 

He is incredibly fast, but she knows that this speed is nothing. She’s seen him move faster than light itself, tearing up the forest until he’s behind that hellish cage. Nothing is more fun to the otherworldly than tormenting the living, making them tremble and shake like aged leaves in Pegastym.

And for all the problems this demon has caused for Novis, no one has ever seen his face. All she and the others know to separate him from another brigand or pirate is the slashed commander’s cloak and blue hair. She’s never gotten a look at his face for he is never in the sun. Her texts say that vampires will burn the Valentian light. She has only caught glimpses of him, like the corner of his chin, the back of his blue and black head, the edge of his tattered cloak. But the worst is his hands—they look like they’re crippled with arthritis, gnarled in spots. They’re always red, always covered with blood. 

If he didn’t torment them, if he didn’t threaten Novis, then she would turn a blind eye to his behaviour of chasing women. But terrorizing the islanders to stay in their homes after dark and scaring livestock into falling over dead is too far. Novis is supposed to be peaceful, a haven to the crimes and problems of the mainland. Yet he threatens them all—one vampire versus hundreds of mortal souls—and he leaves them terrified, cowering behind their holy curtains and holding their blessed relics.

It is the job of those in the priory— Celica’s handmaiden Mae, Boey, Genny (when she is not cowering behind her writing desk) and Silque—to send the undead back to their realm. Terrors, vampires, whatever they are, they are to return, by Mila’s divine decree. 

The others never seem to catch him. Boey and Mae always complain he is too fast, that he is only a streak of blue and black in the fading light of the lanterns that light the way to their home. Perhaps it is because Silque does not use a guiding flame or lantern to light her way. Or maybe Silque is just faster than the mages.

He throws himself over a large boulder at a wicked speed. Silque slips around it, hindered for a moment but regaining speed. She’s got him this time, she swears by it. By Mila’s magic that runs in her veins, by the oath that binds her to this job, she will catch him.

Silque pushes her legs to move faster, not enough air reaching her lungs. She will collapse if she doesn’t slow down, but this is the closest she has gotten to him in a long time. She finally gathers a breath, but just one. Left with a choice: she can breathe in and push herself further, or speak the spell that may destroy him.

He slows a little. A lucky break. She chooses Nosferatu. 

The area fills with bright, white light, cleansing the dark for just a moment. They’re nearing the cemetery; she can feel the change in the air. The cemetery is filled with the stench of the dead, the heaviness of their restless souls. Her spell misses. The tattered cloak moves from the spell’s line of impact. She chokes out a curse as she hears him crash through the wrought iron gates of the cemetery, a passage to hell and it’s underworld. 

Then, in the dark, she catches her breath. A demented, guttural laugh follows as she pants.

Her boots grind in the dirt, the ache of the holy gripping her back. Her holy relic—the gift from Nomah when she arrived to the island—is a talisman against Terrors.  _ Not a step further, do not move a step further Child of Light. _ It cries out in her mind; the voices she hears, she calls them her angels of protection. Her heartbeat thunders in her head, rattling her brain. 

She heeds the relic’s warnings, struggling for a breath. The mix of magic and lack of air make her stomach sour with nausea. Bile rises up her throat and she stumbles to support herself against a tree, her nails chipping into the bark. She retches twice, sucking back nervous breaths, trying to keep what’s left of her meal in her stomach. 

Silque collects herself as best as she can before moving closer to the cemetery. She feels Mila’s claws at her back, pulling her away from the gates. If she even touches the iron them her hands will be frostbitten for weeks. It is the dead’s protection, a curse set upon the cemetery against the holy.

Another laugh. It’s directed at her. 

“You sick? Should I call for another of your kind?” He jeers from behind the gate. She can see crimson eyes in the dark. A symbol of death, a symbol of what he is. 

“I need only be here to finish the job.” She coughs, steadying herself.

“Yet you’re on death’s door.”

“I have not passed through the gate yet.” 

“Oh you won’t get the gates, Sister. You’re too good for them. When you die, you’ll be sainted in Mila’s eyes and be a martyr for something or other.” He says. An exaggerated yawn escapes his lips. “Bo- _ ring! _ ”

“I’d rather be sainted then a demon like you.” Her breath has returned to her at last. 

“Hm. You know what I am.” 

“You drained one of my own of her life, of course I know what you are!”

“You don’t sound charmed.”

She’s aghast. “Should I be?” Silque yells.

“Typically I get a better reaction than that.” He purrs. She can hear his lead feet pace against the ground. They hit the gates, jangling noisily.

“What do you mean better?”

“Women magnetize to me.” He says. “A side effect of what I’ve become. It’s my... draw. Like your magic, I’m sure it’s made some men look your way.”

She flushes, hands clenching into fists. He laughs. “Suppose I was thinking you’d throw yourself at my feet.”

“I’d rather throw myself into the ocean and never come back up for air again!”

“Wow,” He laughs again. “how’d you know that I love the fiery ones?”

“Incorrigible! You speak to Mila’s daughter like that?”

“You don’t look like a dragon.” 

“The Mother walks with me! Just like she does with all her children!” She exclaims. “And as her child, I’ll do as she decrees.” She catches his crimson gaze narrowing on her. She wills herself to take a step closer, the invisible claws in her back burning hot and hard. The relic whispers for her to step back. “And she decrees that I lay you to rest. You’re at hell’s door where you belong.”

“As if you could take me, you’re just a human. So what, you have some holy spells in your back pocket? I could think of a thousand ways to kill you right now just with one claw.” He threatens, his voice coming closer to the gate. “You ain’t shit.”

She can see one of his claws, red with blood grip the gate. He can touch it, for he is inside; but if she touched it, she would freeze and suffer. However if he touches the crumbling stone posts that protect the priory, he’d burn. “There are only two ways you can kill me, with holy magic or if you behead me. We both know you’re too weak to do the latter. Besides, you miss constantly with that janky spell.”

“Why don’t you come out and face your judgement?” She barks, black magic ripples through her body. She can see his red eyes between the iron gates. He’s teasing her, like he’s done for a year now, ever since he showed up to the island and killed that cleric outside of the Greatport.

“It would ruin the game.” He laughs. 

“Is this a game to you? You slaughter without need, you kill the holy in the name of nothingness!”

“If I do not feed, I will die. Same as you.”

“Yet the world would be a better place without your kind!” She yells into the darkness. 

She sees his red eyes again, just in the shade. Nosferatu glows on her fingers, waiting to come out and claim his life. It is a holy magic bestowed upon her by the Mother to protect this island. But this cemetery, the gates of the dead, keep her from releasing ash and light and charring his body to cinders. 

“It’s sad. You’re quite pretty, I’d think you’d be sweeter to men. Do you chase all the guys around with that handful of deadly magic?”

“Only the lecherous pigs!” She throws the spell and it freezes against the gates, hissing loudly. She hits his claw, freezing it. She feels some strength return to her, watching as the tip of his finger turns gangrenous. It falls against the ground.

“Temper temper.” He winces. In the dark she can see the glint of his teeth, no his fangs.

“Stay away from the priory and the Greatport.” She demands. “Or there will be hell to pay.”

“Then how will I eat?”

“Starve!” She yells.

“What about you? That spell you just used.” He says. “I’ve seen the other brats use it on animals. Sucks the life right out of them. You have it too, right?”

She stays silent.

“Ha! You’re just as bad as me. But that’s the difference between the holy and the damned: the holy lie about their sins and shortcomings. The damned admit it, we own it because it’s what we are.” He purrs. The sun begins to rise and she hears the gates clank together loudly. “Another night, Sister.”

* * *

“I swear on Mila’s throne Boey, I  _ had  _ him!”

Silque overhears Celica’s retainer chattering to the other mage-in-training. The way Boey is always at her side, always ready to correct her (even when he, himself is just as wrong), suggests that there is something there between the two of them. In fact, Genny’s told her of them often in between prayers and other chores they are assigned during the day. Truth be told, she enjoys hearing any idle gossip she can get; it’s always been a favourite of hers. It distracts her from the looming duties she carries on at night

Silque’s gaze flickers up from her old texts on vampires. The two settle in beside Lady Celica, their hands full with black magic tomes. Their voices drop in volume as Silque’s eyes leave the page.

“Somehow I doubt that.” Boey says. 

“Oh and why is that? I’m the one who was on duty in the northern forest last night, which is where that bloodsucker hides out!” Mae presses.

“I didn’t see any signs of the vampire.”

“You were in bed sleeping! Of course you didn’t.”

“Well I didn’t feel his presence! We hunters can feel a vampire’s presence when they’re near!”

Silque’s brow raises. She doesn’t feel a presence, vampires have no souls; nothing to give them a placement. It is more so an aura of malevolence, something that makes the blood pump a little faster, the shivers down the spine come quicker and the angels in her head—protectors of her mind, body and soul from the relic—speak a little louder.

“Oh? And what’s that like?”

“You wouldn’t know! You’re just Celica’s handmaiden!”

“Yes, Celica’s handmaiden who slung fireballs and lightning at the vampire!”

As if Fire and Thunder will kill him. Now, even her holy dagger or Genny’s blessed shield, Mae’s sword or Boey’s lance will do little but inconvenience him. On the contrary, they’ll probably help to piss him off quicker.

“We haven’t even seen him for the last few weeks.” Boey says. “Maybe he left or some animal got to him.” 

As if an animal would cower before a vampire. He’s an apex predator. The vampire’s words rings loud in her ears, making her sick to her stomach. Her brow furrows further as she struggles to hear their hushed voices.

“If I had’ve just been quicker, I would’ve made him into a lightning pole with all the metal he wears!” She jeers. Her words frighten poor Genny, who’s barely able to hold her staff and stand watch on the priory when they go on hunts. Silque notices that Genny’s fingers tremble against her white magic text. She looks nervously to Silque, eyes wide and pleading for help. The elder clears her throat. 

“Perhaps we should save talk of the vampire for Sage Nomah.” Silque says, looking up from her text. “And we should study, there are only so many moments in the day we can learn.”

Mae hushes up and her eyes turn back to her texts, mumbling something to Boey as she begins to study. From the corner of her eye, she can see Genny’s hands begin to steady against the page. Later on, Celica says something to Mae about her boasting and it hushes. As does any talk of the vampire in the open. It becomes reserved for meetings with Sage Nomah at sunset and sunup. 

Novis had been safe from his kind for a while now, but she supposes that moment of peace has ended. It is all too abrupt; the season of Wyrmstym is upon them, when the land’s harvest is ripe and ready to be picked. All capable hands from the priory will be pulled to help in the fields, as will hers. They will be left wide open for attack, for the vampire to make his next move. 

It makes her both nervous and angry. Why had he picked Novis? Why not the mainland? No... either way they are damned just like him; in the end he will always need to feed and they will be forced to drive him back to his cemetery. They are all caught in a cycle of fight, flight and feed.

Mae’s pride set her off more than usual. More often than naught, Silque finishes her regular duties of caring for the young, sitting confessional and offering food to the poorer sections of the island and then holes up in her room, devoting herself to prayer. It is the one thing that clears her muddy mind and stops her shaking hands. And by Mila’s divine grace, it temporarily draws her attention away from the vampire’s claims.

* * *

Silque never closes the door to her room, instead leaving it ever so slightly open so that people know she is praying. No one ever enters or bothers her. Interrupting prayer is a holy offence, it is like stepping into a close and private conversation between friends or family. In her prayers, Silque always asks for the priory—for the Mother to continue to keep it safe and provide Novis with enough. It is continuous, going on for hours and hours until Silque sways in her spot and her mind swims with thoughts. 

Moonlight slips through the thin lace curtains of her room. The moon is startlingly bright tonight, almost pure white. For once, her room is lit up. It always seems too dark, barely bright enough to write sermons and hymns even at high noon. 

She turns to face the window as her hands drop from their clasp. Such a bright and pretty night. Her eyes scan the familiar priory grounds—the gardens that grow beautiful and plentiful flowers and food, the courtyard that hosts many a training session for their mages and mercenaries alike, the large trees that children play under the warmth of Flostym. She notices something in the distance. A traveller perhaps, probably weary and looking for a good meal and somewhere to sleep. She glances behind her, into the dark hallway. Most of the other residents must have gone to sleep already. 

Silque pulls a cloak around herself and hurries outside. She knows they have extra rolled mattresses and blankets which can be set up in the chapel; there is also a small stock pile of provisions in the pantry. Visitors are not unheard of this late at night, although, it’s been awhile since they’d had one. It must be past midnight now. She takes a lantern. 

Why, it reminds her of herself. Arriving at the priory in the wee hours of the morning and being welcomed with open arms. Er, sort of. Less blood and death. She doesn’t like to think about anything before Novis. Majority of the residents only know the gist of her abandonment, leading to her intense devotion to the Earth Mother.

She walks out to the edge of the priory, holding her hand out. “Come into the arms of the Mother,” she greets in her most comforting voice. The relic hums with the voices of angels, speaking warnings to her. She ignores them, bringing the lantern up to the traveler's face. She takes in features of porcelain skin, blue hair, lips twisted in a haughty smirk and blood red eyes. 

“I think I’d rather not.” 

The vampire.

She drops the lantern against the earth and lets out a yelp. Silque scrambles behind the stone posts of the priory before he can lunge. The lantern begins to catch fire on the dry grass and she lets out a cry. His boot comes down, extinguishing it with dark smoke. It smells like burning rubber and salty air.

_ “You! _ ” She growls.

“Aw, cold shoulder now? You were so happy to see me a second ago.” He says, his horrible laugh following after.

“Why are you here?” She asks, wide eyed and shaking with shock. He stands just before the dividing line of the mundane and extraordinary, the line that will burn him to death with Mila’s eminence. Silque is without her hunting gear, her blessed dagger, and since she’s exhausted from prayer, she has no magic. The only thing that may grant her some protection is the relic around her neck, warning her in ancient tongues.

It sends panic throughout her body, erupting in a hot sweat. It’s been only 16 years since she clambered behind the line of the holy for protection from her mother. How terrifying that history wishes to repeat itself. 

He is in the best position to kill her, here and now, should she step past the line.

“I demand to know why you’re here!” Her voice is stronger now; Celica and her friends are in there, he  could kill them all. She needs to protect them, however she can. He rolls his eyes. “I do have a name you know.”

“Why are you here?” Silque says, clutching the necklace around her throat. It whispers to her again, telling her not to move any further for her own safety.

“Nice place you got there.” His head flicks back to the priory. “Love to see inside, I always liked churches when I was human.”

“Were you ever human?” She practically spits at him. 

He smirks. “Uh  _ duh _ . No one is born like this.” He says, gesturing to his bastard of an outfit. New boots are on his feet, they’re lily white and jarring to the eye. They don’t belong on someone who wears the stink of blood like it is cologne. “We’re  _ made _ , like you are. You were made into a hunter and I was made into a vampire.

“Did you renounce your humanity?” She asks. There could still be salvation for him, an exorcism perhaps hidden in some old text or scripture for his tortured soul. 

“Next question.”

No hope then.

“What was your human name?”

“Human this, human that. Honest to the Mother, you’re just as vain and obsessed as the rest of the holy.” She stays silent as he smirks in the dark. “My name was Python. Still is.”

“Well Python,” she says. “Why are you in such an easy position for me to kill you?”

“I know you wouldn’t.” He says. “Can’t actually.”

She frowns. He dares to leer closer to the posts, wiggling his gnarled fingers just centimetres away from the stone. She notices that he’s still missing a section of his little finger, the one that had been claimed by her spell. She’ll have to make a note somewhere that vampires can’t regenerate lost limbs. Perhaps she could bring it up to Sage Nomah, contest the validity of their old texts. “I can sense that you’re weak from prayer. Devoting yourself to a Goddess who doesn’t listen.” He leers. “Silly cleric.”

“Silque.”

“Pardon?”

“The cleric’s name is  _ Silque _ .” She snaps, releasing her clutch on the necklace.

Python smirks. “Finally. Only took a year to know my huntress’s name.” He says. “Pretty name too. Like the fabric?”

She doesn’t answer, instead staring him down in the darkness. “Why are you here?”

She hears his feet brush against the ground. Walking, pacing perhaps. “I was just coming by to say hello. Been a while huh?”

“You were gone.” 

“And?”

“I want to know where. And what you were doing.”

“Ooh, a possessive type? Didn’t realize you were so smitten with me.” He says. 

“Speak like that again and the Mother will strike you down where you stand!” She exclaims.

He laughs bitterly and loudly. “Ha! She’s too busy on her throne of depravity. And besides, I already drank one of her girls dry before and she didn’t do  _ shit _ .” 

“Then I will strike you down myself!”

“With what power?” He laughs again. “If you really wanted to know where I was, then I guess you’ll have to come out and catch me.”

She turns around, beginning back to the priory. He cannot cross the line, just as she cannot cross the cemetery’s gates. And she will not stand for insolence, for slander of the Mother and her.

“H-Hey! Where are you going?”

“Back to my chamber!” She calls, then turns her head to warn him. “The next time you see me, it will be with your head in my hand.”

“Silque  _ stop! _ ” He calls her name and it sends a shiver down her spine. He doesn’t say it like Mae, who slurs the syllables together or Genny who draws them out carefully. He speaks her name, hard on the  _ k _ . It sounds—

She stops. “Tell me where you were.” She says. “I need to know if I must bless any bodies.” 

“Ha. Good luck with that.”

She whips her head around, the blunt edges of her hair hit her cheeks. Terror seizes her, her hands fly to clutch her necklace again. “What did you do?” She breathes, hurrying back to the edge of the priory. 

“I was hunting elsewhere.” He says at last, proud that she has returned to talk.

Silque frowns.

“Listen, beggars cannot be choosers.” He chastises. “You said stay away from Novis so I traveled to the mainland and drank there. I think it’s fair.”

“So you caused troubles for another village? Or church?”

“Some brigands actually.” He says. “The blood was rank. Tainted really.”

“Is there a difference?”

“Oh yes, clear as day.” He says. He takes another step closer to her, his feet crunching against the dry grass. He comes incredibly close, almost dangerously. He could go up in ash should he lean ever-so-slightly over the edge. He speaks, voice low and rich. “The holy‘s blood is clean. They don’t drink, or smoke or sin. Pure, as Mila intended.” He says. “It’s intoxicating.”

Her brow furrows. He sighs, crossing his arms. The cloak slips away so she can see a dirty, blood-stained tunic half tucked into the lip of his trousers. Python shrugs, taking a step away from the dividing line. “How do I explain it to a human... Think of it like...” He starts and then stops with a laugh. “Well that wouldn’t work for you, you can’t drink...”

“A meal.” He proposes, his voice both deep and soft. “Think of it like your favourite meal. Having it after years of drought, no good crops or kills. And it’s fresh, hot, rich...”

Another shiver runs down Silque’s spine. Her fingers tremble against the grooves of her necklace.

“That’s the blood of the holy.” He says thinly. 

“Is my blood like that?” She finds herself asking. 

“I’d need a taste to be sure.” Python says. She sees a red eye wink. “Care to share?”

She shakes her head quickly. “Ah well, guess I’ll have to live with your smell.”

“My smell?” She asks. All her texts on vampires and the undead were thin and small, with little facts and information. They were more stories, recounts from crazed and terrorized villagers rather than scholars’ notes or research points. It said that vampires could not come out in the light, but he doesn’t shy away from her lantern, nor does he burn up in the bright moonlight. There is so much she doesn’t know and he is an unwitting player—perhaps he could let lose a trade secret, something that could bring her closer to ending him. Maybe even proving some old scholars wrong and in the process, she could even help others who are troubled by vampires.

“Your smell is the most excruciating though.” He says. “Every human smells different, it comes from their blood. No matter how many jasmine leaves they dust on them or how much soap they lather into their hair, it doesn’t leave them.”

“I pain you?”

“The best smells are painful. Makes the body ache straight down to the marrow. It’s good... Makes me feel something again.” He smirks. “But smelling you and your lady is the worst. Holy and royal blood is like a match made at Mila’s Temple.”

She goes still. She swallows back nervousness as he smiles thinly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh sorry, I meant Princess Anthiese. Celica’s just a dummy name right?”

Caught. He knows about the princess taking refuge on the island.

“How do you know about lady Celica?” She asks quietly. It is still a secret to all of Novis. Should someone find out, she’d have to leave and find another place to study. She is merely here to study the magics like Mila demanded and then leave for the throne. 

“Smell alone.” He says. A smirk curls on his lips and his white teeth gleam in the darkness. “Thanks for the confirmation, though. So what’s she doing on this boring little island?”

Silque bites down on her tongue. “I cannot say.” She says. “Nor will I tell you.”

His smirk fades, then he shrugs again. “Fair enough.” He says. “Not that I was after her per se. Just wanted some gossip.”

His feet crunch against the ground. He’s beginning to walk away. “Take care of her. She’s a lady that‘s wanted by many people.” He calls. “Silque."

“Python?” She calls, running to the edge of the priory. Her hands touch the warm stone, brimming and brewing with the holy spell that protects them. She calls his name again and again, but never dares to step beyond the stone pillars.

* * *

Someone comes after Celica, just as Python warned. But in blessed error she is gone, delivering Mila’s bounty of shieldfish to her Temple with Mae. Worse, the kidnappers mistake Genny’s room for Celica’s. They shatter the stained glass window above her bed. Genny’s scream pulls Silque from her sleep.

She scrambles to pull on her hunting dress, clambering out of her room with the other priory residents. Genny is huddled into the breast of a priestess, a shattered bottle in her hand. Silque remembers seeing it hold wildflowers from the garden at one time. They’re on the floor now, crushed under the soles of boots and shoes.

Genny flies towards Silque, sobbing into her chest. “Oh Genny! Thank Mila you’re alright.” She breathes, holding the little cleric tight. Nomah and Boey arrive, reconvening with the priestess. She explains that she kidnappers ran off. 

“Nomah, what should we do?” Boey asks.

“It is a sin to hurt any of Mila’s clergy.” His sage gaze flickers between Boey and Silque. “Search the island and deliver judgement.”

“Very well.” Boey says and makes off down the hall. 

_Judgement_. Silque swallows hard. She knows the price these men will pay; it will be their life. If they had attempted to take Lady Celica or managed to make off with Genny, they would be paying the same price. To hurt any of Mila’s chosen or her kin is a punishment worthy of death. 

Silque gingerly takes Genny’s shoulders. “Come now, I have to go.” She says softly.

“Promise me you’ll come back, Silque!” Genny begs. She holds out her little finger. “Double promise!”

“Of course I will. I have to protect you and the priory after all.” She says. Genny’s lip trembles. The hunter breathes a sigh, reaching up to the nape of her neck and unhooking her necklace. She brings it around Genny’s neck, just Nomah had done to her years before. “Here. It will keep you safe until I return.”

Genny’s hands clasp around it. “Your relic...” she breathes.

“Sister Silque, you must go.” Nomah says, resting a hand on her own. Her gaze flickers between the old man and young girl. She nods slowly and turns swiftly on her heel. Boey is at the door, his lance in one hand and her dagger in the other. She takes it from him, tying the sheath around her waist.

As she leaves, she hears Genny burst into tears again, it fuels a vengeful fire in Silque’s heart. Her hands clutch into fists.

“It was probably the vampire.” Boey says, pushing open the front door. A few more steps and they’ll be beyond Mila’s divine protection. Or she at least; Boey probably still has his blessed relic. 

“Don’t be foolish Boey. He can’t cross past the posts.” Silque says as they thunder along the lantern scape. “It was probably some brigands after Celica—”

She stops.

“Celica?” Boey breathes. “What do you think they found out who she is?”

“Hush.” She says quickly. “I will take the southern half of the island.”

He nods. “I’ve got the north half. Good luck.” He breathes. Before she can tell him the same, Boey is gone.

Silque takes a running start to the southern sect of the island, slipping along thorny seabrush and trees. And unluckily, she catches the kidnappers’ attention. She sees axes and shields glint in the midnight moon. Like a deer in the headlights, she stares shocked at their weapons. They’re both huge, burly and not to mention, pissed-off looking. But Silque will not falter: they tried to take Celica, they hurt Genny and they defiled one of Mila’s houses: they will pay. It is Mila’s retribution that they face for trifling with her kin, for trying to do Gods-know what to her, and Silque will be the one to deliver it.

Silque begins to call forth Nosferatu as the brigands notice her. As she speaks the first syllable, she’s pulled from her feet by a hand around her waist. She sees the tatters of a dark cloak flutter in the wind. Gods, not  _ him _ .

She’s thrown into the bony crook of his arm, his hand locking down hard on hers. It is freezing cold. She stares wide-eyed up at Python. “Seems you paid attention.” He raises a brow.

The last breath of Nosferatu escapes her lips as she stares up at him. She can’t speak, can’t think; mind is muddy and stark with terror that freezes everything. Her tongue is thick with words, with confusion; she cannot finish her incantation, or start a new one. Hell, even a prayer to the Mother is far from her lips.

Giving her a ghastly smile, he winks. “Did I take your breath away?” He whispers. His grasp loosens on her. “Come on, act up now.”

The words are a trigger. Her nails drive down into his hand—the one missing the little finger. He doesn’t flinch. She can hear the voices of the brigands growing closer. Is he working with them? That would make sense as to why he knew about Celica. Is he going to pass her off as some trophy? She speaks the words of Nosferatu, holy magic flowing from her hands and to his frigid skin. She burns his hand and he lets out a deep, monstrous hiss. His hand throbs purple.

It raises the brigands’ attention further, she draws her dagger from the sheath. She calls forth dark magic again, stepping out to face them. If she dies, she will die defending Genny; and if Boey finds her, hopefully it will pressure him to study his magic harder. But again, before she can release feathers and ash into the air, Python harshly grabs her by the waist. He head rag-dolls back limply, hitting something hard. The world rings in her ears loudly, unused to the sound of something other than the Mother’s angels. The breath is knocked from her lungs as they move, fast as a shooting star.

“I’m trying to help ya here!” He hisses when they stop again.

Nausea hits her. Her head lolls around and she tries to focus on him, murmuring sections of Seraphim again. If she could only speak those words, if she could only reach her dagger, she could stab it into his heart and pin him down. Then she could run off to the priory for reinforcements. But his eyes strike a different type of fear into her heart. The words melt in her mouth and she fumbles over them like a nervous child. Is this what he was talking about? The magnetic power he has over girls? She thought with her oath, her path as a hunter that she would be free of his charm. 

Seems it isn’t true.

She struggles for the words, lost in his gaze. From the molasses muck of her mind it comes to her: hypnosis. That’s what one of the texts called it. It was the power to control the victim, make them do the caster’s bidding. She sees why it was described as so dangerous.The lull of his voice, the scorching look in his red eyes, the momentary softness in his touch, his words. 

Sound begins to fade, her gaze growing cloudy and bleary. His mouth moves again and again, but she can’t hear him. It’s funny to see him fall from haughty grace and look almost... worried for once. With her last breath, she speaks a prayer. “Mother Mila, hold me in the palm of your great hand.” She whispers, feeling his arthritic grip clutch around her shoulders. And then, the world goes dark and her last sight is worry in Python’s eyes.

* * *

Silque hears rushing water when she comes to. There’s something smooth and frigid cold covering her mouth. If it wasn’t so cold, it would be almost comforting. But it doesn’t move, instead getting tighter as she flicks her head to try and remove it. She screams, bites down hard but there is nothing. Not even a momentary hiss or grunt from his lips.

Python. 

He’s there, his hand over her mouth, stopping her scream. Her head whips backwards and he pulls her like a rag-doll over his arm and further into the forest. Her feet barely touch the ground; it feels like she’s flying. She doesn’t know where they’re going. It could be anywhere... Back to the cold graveyard? Will she freeze to death and will he drain her? Her final view of Mila’s beautiful earth will be a line of decrepit graves and faint, pale bodies drained of blood. 

Faint. That’s what happened to her. She’d hit her head and fainted. Gods, she was probably concussed. They slow down and her vision returns to her. She winces, lightheadedness hitting her in waves once again. It makes the dark forest floor a myriad of black and olive and blue and red. No, not just red. Blood red. Blood. On his hand that is over her mouth, her hands, her purple robe. On his cheek, crusting and flaking on hers.

Gods, she thought herself a more canny hunter and cleric, but it seems she is not. Her bloody hands touch the back of his hand, nails digging into his skin to hurt him again, to make him let go. But he doesn’t even twitch. 

“Relax.” Python coos gently, perhaps trying to work his hypnosis again. It doesn’t work as it did before. “I didn’t taste.”

She doesn’t believe that but she doesn’t feel any wounds aching. He loosens his grip on her mouth. “I offed those brigands for you.” He says, like it’s a peace offering.

His hand comes away and she speaks the rest of the incantation. From her hands, black magic spills out into the night air, filling with the space with pressure and ozone. “See the stars!” She cries out.

He narrowly dodges, dropping her to the ground in an effort to get away. Silque hides a cry as she meets the forest floor. Python is nothing more than a tattered flash in the dark. The tree behind her shakes as he stares down at her from above. She scrambles away, her dress and palms growing dirty. “I think I’m staring at one.” He says coyly.

“Why are you… why is there blood on me?” She demands.

The vampire leaps down from the bowers of the tree. He slams down hard against the earth, making her quiver. He holds out a hand and she shies backwards again. 

“You should’ve expected a fight, don’t act so surprised. After all you did have a dagger on you. Burnt to the touch.” He says.

Her hand flies to the curve of her waist. The sheath is empty. “So you—“

“Already said so.” He leaps down to the ground and holds out his hand further. “C’mon, I just saved your measly little life, you really think I’m going to kill you now?”

“I don’t know where your allegiance lies.” She says. “How do I know that you’re not trying to gain my trust only to plunge the sword into my back?”

“I have allegiance to no one except me, myself and I.” Python smirks. “Now would I have kept you alive now?”

Her eyes widen. “How can I trust that you have such pure intentions?” She asks, hand flying to her neck. The necklace. It’s with Genny. Mila above, she’s defenceless...

He scoffs. “Your choice to. I could’ve easily sunk my teeth into the both of you.”

She cranes her neck to look behind him where the brigands were. He steps in front of her, leaning down and tilting her chin up to meet his gaze. His fingers are freezing and some of the blood slicks off his fingers and onto her skin. “Best if you didn’t look at that.”

She swallows back nausea. “Was it only one?”

“Two. I’ll take care of the bodies.”

She doesn’t want to think about what he will do with them. It could be the river for them, or even a roaring fire or deep ditch. The ways to dispose of a body are countless.

“You’re awful generous tonight.” Silque says, eyeing him cautiously as he turns on his heel and sits beside her.

“Not generosity, exactly.” He says with a laugh that’s less guttural and lighter, as if from the top of the lungs. Silque is more unsettled than ever.

Her eyes scan the forest as she skirts away from him. Her hands meet the ground. She watches as his pale lips curve into a smirk. “I have a favour to ask.” He says. “To both our benefit.”

The hunter’s gaze narrows as he gets up, offering a hand. She ignores it, unsteadily getting to her feet. She sways for a moment and regains her composure, beginning towards the river. A weeping willow drags it’s sad buds into the water, making ripples in the slow currents. Rocks and pebbles line the river floor. Water lilies, not yet bloomed in the moonlight, bob on the surface as her hands dip into the glassy waters. Water will bring her comfort, bring her back to the clarity she desperately needs. Silque dips her hands into the cold river, bringing it up to her face once, twice, three times until her face stings with a chill and her hands are raw.

“I want Lady Celica’s diadem.”

Silque brings her hands down on her dress, soaking the skirts. “ _ You what?! _ ”

“Don’t be so dramatic.” He says, leering a little closer. Like before, her breath escapes her, words and thoughts stuck in her throat. This must be what he was talking about. Can he not use it in holy places? No... it has to be something else.

She winces, tripping backwards into the river. Clarity comes back to her as her leggings and boots soak, the purple of her dress turning almost black. It is freezing but his grip on her mind is gone.

His brow furrows. “Didn’t know you knew that one.” 

“What one?”

He cusses. A secret of his kind has escaped. “I can’t do anything now. Cross even.” He admits, looking to 

the water. “It’s holy grounds. Mila’s tears.”

By divine hands, she is given a bargaining chip. He cannot control her while she stands in the river and she wants information. She has patience, she can wait until sunup when he has to retreat to his godless cemetery. Although, her boots are beginning to sink into the muddy floor of the riverbank. 

“Never.” She says. “The princess’s diadem is a holy relic of Mila. Undead hands would defile it’s holiness.”

“You know you could stand to be a bit nicer.” She stares him down. He scoffs. “I warned you once and saved you and  _ this  _ is how you repay me? Listen, I’m only asking for a small thing. And like I said this is as much for me as it is for you.”

“Lady’s Celica diadem is  _ not  _ a small thing!”

His hands fly up. “Are you not going to ask why I want it?”

“I know you’ll only lie.”

“Wow Silque, didn’t realize you thought so lowly of me.” He scoffs and shrugs.

She squints in the darkness. The moon lights his blue hair so that is looks almost purple in the glow, his pale skin looks luminescent. “Why would you want that? What value does it have to you?” She asks. “You’re immortal, you need nothing but humans to feed yourself. You could probably survive harsh Rigel."

He lets out a bitter laugh. “I’d sooner die again then go up there.”

Her breath catches in her throat. He’s died before. Right. But how did he die? There are too many questions, too many thoughts banging around in her head. She feels a headache coming on, and not just from the possible concussion.

“I need to borrow it, prove something.” He says. “It is as much for your safety as mine.”

“Is it truly? Or are you working some sort of magic on me?”

“Can’t do it when you’re on holy land.” He says.

She smirks a little. She was right; she’d have to jot that down in a journal, prove the sages and scholars of this knowledge wrong. Perhaps even help some other poor soul tormented by his kind.

“ _ Silque?! Sister Silque where are you?! _ ”

Boey. His panicked voice fills the night air. She almost wades out of the water but stops. Python comes to the water’s edge, almost too close. His hand pokes out and she notices the marble of her dagger. It’s wrapped in his tattered cloak: his skin cannot meet it—it’s a consecrated relic of Mila and he will burn.

Her hands wrap around the handle, feeling some comfort come back to her. When she looks up, he’s gone.

The mage finds her not even a minute later, eyes wide with shock when he sees her standing in the river. She’s a sight to behold: simple, sweet Silque soaking wet, smeared with blood and holding a bloody dagger in her hands.

“I see you made quick work of them.” Boey says. His eyes flit to the bodies that Python has left behind. She can’t look at them. “A victory for the priory then.”

She nods, feeling strength leave her as she begins to clamber out of the river. Her boots slip in the mud and her dress will need a good long soak. Boey offers a hand and helps her out. “You look pale.” He says. “Are you hurt?”

“More scared than anything.” Silque admits. It is not far from the truth. 

“Fair enough. Let’s get you back to the priory. Your gaze looks different, did you hit your head?”

“Something akin to that.” Silque murmurs more to herself than Boey. They begin a limping walk back to the priory. While she is victorious in taking vengeance for Genny and keeping the priory safe, she can’t help but feel the heavy weight of the debt she owes now.

* * *

The priory praises Silque for her deliverance. Genny doesn’t leave her for a good day, falling asleep only when Silque is nearby. She is celebrated for days and she grows tired of it. In the passing hours, the hunter returns to her thin texts that the priory owns on vampires. They are all meagre and tiny, little more than tales and a few loose interviews with unsteady individuals who had seen a vampire. Silque has read them hundreds of times before, but this time she reads over the accounts and compares them to what she’s seen with Python.

It drives her mad. Not only does nothing match up, it serves to remind her of him.

She does not sleep for a few nights. At one point she passes out from exhaustion and Genny begs her to rest away her concussion. On the third evening, after she wakes from a short respite, Silque remedies to summon him, in whatever way she can. She looks around her chamber for some holy epiphany, something to jump out at her. Her eyes graze over the writing desk and it’s texts, the tiny cupboard of clothes, the wash basin in the corner where her dress soaks—

Her hunting dress. It was soaked with blood. She can call him with the thing that flows through her veins. Her blood. She bites her lip, half closes the door to her room and listens for footsteps. When she hears none, she finds her mortar and places it on her writing desk. She usually uses it for grinding up Mana herbs to make tonics and potions; today it won’t be used for such a pious purpose. She pulls her dagger from the top drawer and finds an empty jar that once held a salve. 

Silque takes in a breath, recites a plea to Mila to forgive her insolence, for this sin that she is about to commit. As the words leave her mouth, she pulls the dagger from it’s leather sheath, the blade glinting in the candlelight. She steels herself, shutting her eyes for a brief second before opening them again and focusing on her palm. With a firm, precise movement, she pulls the dagger along the lines of her palm and winces at the pain. The hunter bites down on lip harder, reaching for some gauze and holding it down tight. She pours the blood from the bowl into the jar and caps it. Silque sticks the jar behind her texts on vampires and the undead. How fitting.

She steps from her room and goes to Genny’s. She’s still shaken up from the attack, but Silque knows that she would be even more nervous if she didn’t come to her. 

“What’s wrong?” Genny asks, getting up from her desk. There’s a dozen pages spread out. She’s probably working on her story again. 

“I cut my hand on some glass. I fear it is deep.” Silque lies. It comes too easily. 

“Really?” The younger cleric asks with genuine concern. She takes her hand with her small, cold hands and looks at the wound. She gives a sympathetic wince. “Oh Sister, how horrible. First your head, now this?”

“It appears I’m a bit of a mess lately.” She says guiltily.

“Come here.” Genny pulls the chair from her writing desk. Silque sits and watches as she begins to make a numbing lotion. She searches through the drawers and finds a thread and needle.

She  _ did  _ bring this upon herself. 

Genny hands her a cloth to bite down on while she coats her hand with a mixture of healing herbs to numb the skin around it. She can’t watch as Genny sutures her skin back together and wraps it in gauze. “Seems a trail of blood follows you these days.”

It catches Silque’s attention. She swallows hard and forces a smile. “Seems so.” She says as Genny pins the fabric together. 

“Please more careful Sister Silque.” She says. “We all worry for you.”

It is another warning that Silque hears, but does not heed to heart. Silque gets up from her chair, thanking Genny once more. She steps out of the room, breathing a laboured sigh. 

“Oh! Sister wait!” Genny calls.

Silque turns around as the younger cleric hurries out of the room. She holds Silque’s necklace. “I keep forgetting to give this back to you.” She says. “It protected me well and now that you’re here I don’t need it anymore.”

“I am happy it gave you some comfort.” Silque says. 

Genny smiles warmly as Silque takes the chain from her. She clasps it around her neck and thanks Genny once again, bidding her goodnight. 

* * *

When the priory goes to sleep, Silque slips into her only other outfit suitable for outside wear. It is a white dress threaded and beaded with purple. Long sleeves that reach the back of her hands and a high collar stretches up to the edge of her jaw. The skirt reaches her calves, and she usually wears leggings underneath: it is her ceremonial training garb. She is not fully a cleric, and she has training to attend to. The white dress symbolizes her devotion to Mila and the path she prepares to walk. It is something she wears on duty, when she delivers extra food to the hungry or assesses the injured’s wounds.

Silque takes the dagger and dips it into the basin with her hunting dress. She watches as the blood becomes watery and slips off the blade. She doesn’t know if her scent is still on it, or if it is washed away with the water. She supposes she will find out soon enough. She glances up from the basin and pushes her lace curtain back. There is someone out there, waiting just beyond the edge of the priory. 

_ Python _ . She thinks, glancing back to the dagger. She shakes off the water and sheathes it, putting it in her pocket. She takes her payment of blood from behind the texts and quietly begins towards the priory posts. He is less than a foot from the border that separates the two of them, no doubt that there is something inside him that yells to retreat back to the cemetery. A mutual instinct of their backgrounds perhaps: she hears the warnings of Mila’s angels in her ears when she gets too close to the cemetery, naturally he must listen to the begs of demons when he stands before the posts of the priory.

Her plan worked. He is here. And it’s only twilight. Is he in pain standing in the warm light of the dying day? The sky is washed with dark purple clouds. Just beyond, toward the blue sea, they turn salmon pink and soften. It is the golden hour once again. A rare moment where day and night are besotted with one another, creating a cider sky of violet and cinnamon and cerulean.

“Silque.” He rumbles, saying her name so right once again. She ignores the angels’ warnings for her to run away.

She stands a little taller when he greets her. She clutches her wrapped hand to her chest. The holy dagger feels heavy in her dress pocket. “Python.” 

He smirks when she says his name. “I could smell you across Novis.” 

“Is that a bad thing?” She asks.

“Can be. Like if you’re hurt.” He shrugs. His bright red eyes flicker to hers, then to her cradled hand. “What was it this time you silly cleric?”

“A knife.” 

“Sounds purposeful.” 

“It was. I do not like to be in anyone’s debts.” She says, pulling the glass jar from behind her back. His eyes widen, lips parting slightly. She sets it on the ground in front of her, just before the holy posts that keep her safe.

He laughs, a mix of guttural and airy sounds. “If I weren’t a vampire, I’d be looking at you awful strangely.”

“I would not be giving you this then.”

“Is this a bribe? Bad idea, I may come back for more and then you’ll be stuck in this little priory forever.”

“Consider it a debt repaid and nothing more than that.” She says, staring him down. The golden hour begins to fade, the purples and violets fading to dark blue. The moon is hidden behind thick clouds. No luck for seeing his face tonight. “I do not want to owe you anything. It goes against my vows.”

His smile fades, staring her down. He takes a step closer and her hand flies to her necklace, the numbness washing off and pain stabbing slightly. Thank the Mother that Genny gave it back to her just in time. 

“Come out.” He coos. She feels her mind cloud over with fogginess. He’s trying to use his charms again but it’s subdued. The relic is working.

“I will leave the bottle by your cemetery tomorrow morning—“

“I don’t want your blood.” He interrupts. “At least for now. I want you.”

A shiver runs down her spine. Cautiously, she picks her words. “Why?”

“You need to know that I didn’t save your life for some pitiful reason like a diadem.” He says. “Come out, and I’ll tell you why.”

Her eyes widen. “What will you tell me?”

Another strange lungful laugh. “Whatever you want, Silque.”

_ Anything...  _ she thinks. How wrong could she be about vampires? Every text the priory has could be dead wrong about their existence, what they fear, what they are allergic to, what can kill them, if they serve someone higher... It is almost a too tempting offer. He could be a snake in the grass, luring her out to kill her. He could easily sink his teeth into her neck. That is what this is, a lure. Why have a measly jar of her blood when he could have all of it. 

But the temptation is too great. “You won’t harm me will you?” She asks.

He laughs lightly. “I saved your life before and now I’m doin’ you a favour by refusing your blood. Do you really think I want to harm you?”

She doesn’t know what to think. Think. Her thoughts could be invaded by him at any moment. She could be his unwilling pawn in this game as he called it.

“May I ask about...” she pauses, lips pursing tighter. “No. You won’t use that magnet power on me. Promise it right now.”

He smirks. “Oh the old charm. No, I won’t, since you asked nicely.” He says, his brow raising. “Well I can’t actually... But I guess I can’t tell you why since you won’t come out to play.”

He holds out his hand and she shivers. She must take this chance, she will hate herself otherwise. “Allow me to get a journal? This may be my only chance to document such things.”

Python’s brow furrows, eyes flickering with something that looks almost... tender, like a human for a second. It fades in the blink of an eye. “Fine.”

She spins on her heel and he calls her name. She turns around. “Take that with you.” He says, pointing to the jar in the grass. 

“Why—“

“I’ll explain later. Besides, it would be an odd sight for anyone who isn’t on the inside... Like you and I.”

She nods, scoops up the jar and runs back to the priory.


	2. Foxglove

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silque gains a newfound trust in Python and leaves Novis for the Temple of Mila.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a pdf of the entire fic and an exclusive one shot is available on my ficblog through my profile, pls download it if u want   
> i cant fuckign think rn feh just announced faye n silk alts and im gonna jsut be thinkin abt that for a while enjoy im gonna go cry again

“Relax.” 

Python’s voice is melodic and sweet. It would have been calming, had he not been a vampire and she not a hunter. Mila’s angels scream in whispers that she can only hear to turn tail and run.

Yet he is like foxglove. Beautiful and alluring, but when plucked, lethal. She remembers picking some as a child after she arrived on Novis, thinking it would be a good offering to the Earth Mother’s servant. She came back from the forest with a basket full and when Silque went to offer it, one of the elder priestesses swatted it out of her tiny hand and scorched it with her Fire spell. She was warned that while it looked quite beautiful, it would kill anyone who ate it and that Mila would smite her. Such a tiny thing instilled so much fear into Silque’s feeble heart. 

He speaks again, this time lower and sweeter like wine they offer at the feet of the Idol. Her journal is heavy in her lap, the pen loose between her fingers. She flicks it back and forth, a fidget to distract her from the fact that she is so close to her target and intending not to bring him down.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” He says almost touching her elbow. He stops just inches short of her body, as if something invisible pulls at his arm. It only proves that her relic is hard at work, protecting her from him. His gaze holds hers again, and she notices a ring of violet hangs under his eyes and she wonders what it is. Certainly not bruising, blood doesn’t run through his veins anymore. It must be a longing left over, a lust that his body has for humanly things like sleep and food and warmth. She must ask about that when it comes time for the interview. 

“Somehow I don’t believe that.” Silque says, turning her gaze back to the ground. 

“I can’t touch you at all right now. Even if I wanted to.”

Her brow furrows. Could he read her mind? He must have noticed her heady gaze when he pulled his hands away from her. “Why not?”

He laughs, from the top of his jobless lungs again. “Get writing.” He says with what almost looks like a grin.

She opens the journal, flipping through the pages, past sermons, prayers and hymns in her pretty cursive. When she cannot sleep, she writes—something that occurs often. The spine cracks and she flattens the pages out underneath her thin fingers. She untwists the cap of the pen, poising it against the page. 

“Ready,” She says, glancing to him. 

The history is rich and satisfying, like a good meal. Words fall from his mouth like raindrops and form long sentences that pelt down like a furious rainstorm. She takes down everything he says in tiny, precise cursive. 

“Vampires can’t touch anyone or thing that’s under Mila’s divine protection.” He says, eyes ahead on the creek. “That thing on your neck has her damn tears in it. You’re safe.”

“And if I wasn’t wearing it?” She asks.

“Still wouldn’t touch you.”

He had touched her before, thrown her around when she had found the bandits that tried to take Genny, “Somehow I doubt that.” She says, turning her eyes back to the pages. 

“Believe whatever you want, Silque.” He says, getting up. His once-white boots kick against the forest ground. He paces slowly amongst fallen leaves and grains of sand. 

The grove—same one where she stood in the river a few nights ago—is very dark tonight. There’s no stark moon or bright stars to give off much light. She squints in the darkness before lighting a lantern that she had taken from the priory. The alcove by the stream warms with the flame’s glow. For a while they wandered, not sure where to stop and speak; writing and walking at the same time is not an easy feat. 

He throws his tattered cloak to her. “You’re shivering.” He says. 

She didn’t even realize that she was until he said so. Her body shakes, hands unsteady and fingers shy from blood stains and slashes. He smirks thinly and claps his hands together like a master. “Come on now Silque, Sir Python is open to all your burning questions.”

“Are you truly a sir?” She asks. 

His coy smirk fades into a frown. “I meant about what I am, not who I am.” He says. 

“You said that if I came with you, you would tell me whatever I wanted to know.”

“I didn’t say whatever—“

“You did. And if I don’t hear what I want, I’m going back to the priory.” She pushes his cloak off of her lap, closes her journal and grabs the lantern. 

“Wait, stop.” Python scrambles for words. “Gods, Silque would you just—“

He touches her wrist, his hand is ice cold. He hisses, reels back and follow with a loud string of cusses. Her eyes widen. Did  _ she  _ do that?

“Python?” She says as he holds his wrist tightly to himself, just as she had done back at the priory. She sets the lantern down on the forest floor.

“Just  _ stop _ , okay.” He winces again. 

“Gods I don’t know if my white magic will...”

“You got gauze on you?” He asks. 

Silque nods. She always carries some, no matter the place or time; an injury can happen whenever. She pulls it from her pocket, cutting a long piece off with her dagger. She holds it out to him and watches as he opens his palm. The skin turns gray and dark. He cusses again and wraps it. The wound on her hand aches. She bites down on her lip. She didn’t mean to hurt him—

What is she thinking? He was trying to kill her a few weeks ago, and now she was concerned that she had hurt him? This was apart of her training as a cleric, to protect the island from attack, be it Terrors, the undead or vampires like him. 

“Divinity runs deep in you.” 

Her brow furrows. Divinity? She wasn’t born divine, no one is. She is the bastard daughter of a Duma Faithful cleric and a man she never knew. Python is surely mistaken. 

“I was right what I said before.” He says, tying the gauze together. “You’ve got the makings of a martyr: ready to kick the bucket for a stupid reason. When you die, they’ll saint you.”

“I doubt that.” She says.

“Don’t. I’ve seen many girls of your kind and they’re always given a sainthood when they croak.” 

She frowns, looking awkwardly back to her journal as if it will carry her away. She wants to leave but this may be the only time she will ever be able to ask a vampire her burning questions. Not to mention, ask Python why he saved her life. 

He breaks the silence before she can ask another question. “Sniper in the borderland army.” His voice is almost soft.

She looks to him. “Was that your job? Before this.” Silque asks. She can somehow see him as an army man.

He stares off at the cloak before picking it up again. “I hated it.” He says. “Died in a battle against Rigelian invaders.”

She frowns. He hands the cloak to her. She hesitates, then takes it, placing her pen in her lap and wrapping the cloak around her shoulders. It is much too big and drags in the brush and sand. It is thick and worn, both old and young.

“Did you—” she thinks about how she can phrase this question cautiously. “—have anyone?” 

He glances to her and then laughs bitterly. For a vampire, he is too joyful, too full of life and emotion. Terrors can barely form words, yet he laughs and snarls and howls just like any other human being. “Do I look like the sorta guy who has a girl and brats?” He asks. 

Silque thinks for a moment, staring him down from her perch on the stones. In the lantern-light he looks like a destitute beggar. She begins to take stock of how he could be more... approachable. Take away the stained outfit, certainly wash away all the blood on his hands (maybe even a pair of gloves to hide the notches that are his fingers and knuckles), clean him up with a trim of the hair, shave and—

Nope, he wouldn’t fit that wholesome look or life. 

“I didn’t mean a wife and child,” She corrects him. “Parents? Siblings? Comrades?”

His face falls a little. Then he dips his head in a nod. “Yeah I guess I had someone.” He mutters. 

“Do they know about you now?”

“No. Poor bastard probably thinks I’m dead. I don’t know what the army forged in their records.” He says, rubbing the back of his neck. 

Right, he is technically dead. She needs a constant reminder of that. She opens her journal again, moving the lantern close to the blank pages. She drops the subject of his personal life, although she would love more details on how he became this way, who did this to him...

“So anything that has been blessed by the Mother cannot be touched?” Silque asks. 

He looks dazed for a moment, as if pulled from reverie by her voice. “Pretty much. We can’t cross water, they’re her blood. Can’t do anything to anyone in them either.” He explains. 

“So when I stood in the river—“

“You were under her protection.” He laughs again. “Seems she hasn’t abandoned the holy at least. Everyone but the pious can all go to hell, right?”

She shivers and doubts him. Her pen moves gracefully across the page, mouthing his words to herself. His gnarled hand points to her neck, the little white ornament that protects her. “You’re wearing her blessing right now.”

She glances down to it before tucking it under the collar of her dress where it nestles into the v of her collarbone. She jots down more notes, trying to focus on the page. 

“How is a vampire created?” She asks, glancing up to his gaze once again.

“Bad burial. Curse.” His eyes are unwavering on her. “Good ol’ fashioned bite.”

“How were you created?”

He smirks. “You seem a little too interested in me. Say, do I occupy all your thoughts, Silque?”

She shakes her head. “I want to know why you were made this way. Compare it to the theories in my texts.” She lies. There is next to nothing there. A faint heat washes over her neck and ears. 

“Didn’t realize you were a scholar in my kind.”

“A hunter needs to understand her prey.”

“It’s funny that you think I’m your prey.”

Another shiver. She adjusts the cloak around her shoulders, holding his gaze. He lifts his brow and smirks, as if pleased with himself. “I was cursed. Some witch came after me because I apparently broke her heart.” He explains with a smidge of pride. 

Why had she thought he was bitten? As if he would fall to something so simple and stupid. Of course he was cursed by a witch, not to mention one that he had played around with. 

She rolls her eyes. “You’re incorrigible.”

He smirks. “And you’re a prude.”

“So this witch cursed you?”

“Thought you said I was incorrigible.”

“I still want to know.”

His smirk widens as he shrugs. “Apparently since I loved using women, she compared it to a type of lust. Made me into this, can’t say why.” He says. “I don’t know what happened to her afterwards.”

She reaches for her pocket, pulling out a leftover piece of bread wrapped in cheesecloth. She’d taken it from the priory pantry when she returned to gather the journal and lantern. The night chill begins to set in and she pulls the cloak tighter around her body. She notices Python smirk when she breaks the piece of bread. She meets his gaze for a second, biting down on the food. It’s grown stale, but she won’t complain. She must accept all of the Mother’s gifts, regardless of her own preferences. “Do you miss food?”

“You make it sound like I’m a ghost.” 

“I meant actual food. Not blood. Food from the earth and the sea.”

“Oh that.” He mumbles before shrugging again. “Not really. I guess I miss alcohol most but, I don’t miss food. Blood can compare to it easily.”

“And how often do you feed? Roughly?”

“Whenever I’m thirsty.” He says. 

“My texts say every moon—“

He laughs loud and hard. “Gods, if I could only wait that long.” He says. “I find myself thirsty every couple of days. Those bandits from the other night are keeping me fed okay for the time being.”

She nods, quickly writing down that thirst depends. She bites her lip, pen wavering over the page. “And... off the record... when we met earlier you said everyone has their own scent.” She says.

His brow raises, gaze narrowing as he comes closer into the light. “And?”

“And what do I smell like?” she asks.

He stays quiet for a moment, then slides further a little into the lantern’s glow. She can see the gauntness in his cheeks, the harsh curve of his brow, the half-circles of purple under his eyes. He leans close—almost too close—right to the edge of her hair and towards her neck and takes a deep breath in. She stays stock still, like a statue. He cannot hurt her while she wears the relic with it’s crying angels who warn her. Although, she  _ can  _ be scared. He laughs and she jumps. 

“Good.”

It sends a rush of heat down Silque’s spine, then a nervous shake of her hands. “No I mean, what do I smell like?”

“Like the earth. Soft and...” he pauses, as if trying to pluck the perfect word from his thoughts. “Like spring.”

The heat spreads to her cheeks. She smells like spring, she smells good to him. She—

“I need to tell you something before you ask anything else.” Python says lowly. She nods, closing her journal momentarily. Her fingers curl over the cover and into the pages. “Don’t ever give your blood away.” He orders, his voice serious now. His eyes glint in the flickers of the lantern. 

“Why?” Silque asks. 

“It’s bad behaviour. You should know that as a cleric.” He says, glancing to the grass under his wrapped hand. “A vamp could get hooked on your blood and you’d never know peace again.”

“It can’t be only that.” She pushes. “Is this a tactic to corner me?” 

“No, this is for your own good. Don’t even give it to me, it’s not payment.” He says. “It’s a sentence that you don’t want.”

“How are you sure of what I want?”

“You love Mila right?”

She stops. This is a dividing line, like the gates of the cemetery or the posts of the priory. It is something he or she shouldn’t cross. Slowly she nods. 

“Then that should be enough for you.” He says. “Don’t go against her. She loves the living not the dead. The divine, not the wretched.”

“Alright.” Silque says, still a little unconvinced. 

He must catch her furrowed brow, as he lets out a sigh. “It’s like a blood bond.” He explains. “It binds someone and a vamp together and it can’t be undone without consequence.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning you’d die.”

“Oh.” Her hands tighten around the journal. She takes a nervous breath and nods. “I see.”

“Don’t ever give it away. For your sake.”

“Yes. I won’t.” She says.

He murmurs a quiet  _ ‘good’  _ and they slowly begin talking about him again. They listen to calls of night birds and the sounds of the rushing river. She takes down notes dutifully, filling pages upon pages until the sun begins to rise, washing the sea and shoreline in red and orange and pink. He gets up from their seat at the grove and she pulls off the cloak, handing it back to him. With a swift fling, he spreads it over his shoulders and gives her a side glance.

“See you next moon.”

“How can you be certain?” She asks.

He smirks and winks his red eye. “I know you like a book.”

It sends a flush to her cheeks. Then, she stumbles to her feet, shaking her head. There are still so many questions she wants to ask: about how he looks like a marble statue, how fast he is, how his hands became like that. “Wait, you didn’t tell me why you wanted the diadem!” Before the words can escape her lips, he’s left her in the grove, early sunlight washing over her face.

Silque begins back towards the priory, mulling over what could have happened had he taken her blood. She would have been bound to him and he to her. Could she have hidden in the priory? Hiding like a hierophant or seer to Mila’s wills and visions? Or would his bloodlust found a way to lure her out of the priory and end her life? 

It scares her to think about it. Her feet drag along the dirt ground, the grass thinning along the more trodden areas that connect the priory to the town, villages and Greatport. When she is finally on holy ground, she breathes a laboured and relieved sigh. Calmness washes over her, although it only lasts a moment.

When she enters the priory, there is chaos.

Lady Celica, still in her traveling cloak, holds Genny close. She must have arrived in the night. That’s surprising, their journey usually takes four weeks and here they have made it back in three. Boey is missing, and Mae is nowhere to be seen either. Silque can hear the dulcet tone of Nomah’s voice, praying to Mila. When the door shuts, the cleric and priestess look up with wide eyes. 

“ _ Silque! _ ” Genny exclaims, pulling herself away from Celica and rushing towards her. Her little arms wrap around Silque’s body, surprising her. She pats Genny’s back and drops her journal. “You’re back!”

“Sister Silque! Where were you?” Celica asks.

Another wave of heat washes over Silque. What could she say? That she was fraternizing with the enemy, the one they are to kill? That the divine was becoming friendly with the wretched? 

Celica leans close to her ear, just as Python had done earlier. Her face flushes as Celica speaks. “Mae thought you were seeing a gentleman friend—”

“No!” Silque exclaims a little too loudly. She apologizes quickly. “I just stepped out early this morning. It seems I caused worry, I apologize.”

“Genny wanted to say some rites with you this morning and when she came to your room, you were gone.” She says, a little louder now. “No note or anything. Nomah sent Boey out to search for you. And when I came back, I asked that Mae lend a hand.”

“We thought you had run away, your journal was gone too!” Genny exclaims before hugging her tightly again. Silque places a comforting hand on her back, patting twice before shaking her head. 

“I’m terribly sorry for the worry. I only went for a walk to clear my thoughts and make some notes by the river.” Silque says as Celica stoops down to pick up her journal. She hands it back. “I thought I would only be a few moments, but I suppose I was wrong.”

“Promise you won’t leave without telling us again, Silque.” Genny says, holding out her little finger. “The priory wouldn’t be the same without you.”

Silque forces a thin smile and link her finger with Genny’s. Silque gently wipes away Genny’s tear tracks as Celica touches her shoulder. 

“Yes, you have to be more careful Sister Silque.” Celica insists. “Had you been out at sundown, you might’ve run into that horrible vampire. I know you can handle yourself but...”

“I understand, Sister Celica.” Silque says quickly. She can’t stand to talk about Python again. 

“I just thank Mila you’re safe.” Celica says again. “I’ll go find Boey and Mae and tell them that you’ve returned.”

Silque nods and Genny takes her hand. “Can we go say our morning rites?” She asks and Silque can’t say no to such a plea. Hand in hand, they walk to the Idol Room, and Silque ignores how tired she is.

* * *

Silque hates that he is right. She does not see Python until the next phase of the moon, when it is only a fine crescent hanging in the sky. With it, the cold of Wyrmstym fades and brings the warmth of Flosytm and it’s annual festival. She attends, hand-in-hand with Genny, Celica, Boey and Mae. The island spreads the Mother’s bounty of spring with dance and handmade flower wreaths.

Towards the end of the night, Genny asks Silque for a favour. In her hands is a small bouquet of flowers. “I want to take them to the cemetery, for the departed.” She says “Will you do it for me?” 

Silque cannot refuse such a selfless plea. She takes the handful of wildflowers from Genny and says she will only be a moment. Pulling herself from the bright lights and singing fiddles, Silque carries herself to the cemetery gates. Her gaze falls upon the rotting iron, weathering with age. If they had more money, more idle hands, perhaps they would repair the decaying posts and bring in new gates; but it is not so. Though it sends a chill down her spine, there is an eerie beauty to the forgotten ruins of the cemetery. It is a place of eternal rest, where they will all go one day. Along the metal stakes, ivy and hops begin to snake up, and in time, will consume the gates whole. The air is cool and chilly, and she wishes she had brought a robe or worn a thicker dress. She kneels to the earth and lays Genny’s offering of wildflowers at the cemetery gates. The angels, who have long been silent, begin to whisper for her to hurry away. 

“ _ Silque _ .”

Hard on the  _ k  _ as usual. She knows who it is and looks up into his red eyes. Python is in the shade, hidden from the scorching sunset. She can make out the folds of his cloak and the curve of his sharp jaw; a step further and he will bake.

“Python.” 

As he’s done before, he smiles when she says his name. He flicks his head towards the town. “Ditching the party?”

“Only came as a favour to a friend.”

“Ah, and here I was thinking you were all dolled up for me.” He says. “Nice dress. I like it better than the other one.”

“Apologies, but I am not.” She says, her hands find the bouquet again. “Would you do me a favour?”

His brow raises. “Depends. If I like it, yes. But if not, then I won’t.”

Silque holds out the delicate bouquet to him, just before the gates. Her relic begins to work immediately; she can feel the claws of Mila’s hands digging into her skin. They pull her away from the world of the dead, the gateway. “Will you lay down some of these flowers on the graves?”

“Oh  _ riiiiight _ ... You can’t go in.” He says. 

His skeletal hand comes out from the gates. His fingers curl around the petals, avoiding hers. He’s not willing to repeat the same mistake as last time. 

“Forget me nots. Didn’t know you were so sentimental.”

“It is not mine. Someone else made it.” She says. She doesn’t suspect that he’d go after another member of the clergy now that they have somewhat of an understanding, but she cannot be sure. Although it is unlike Genny to leave the priory most days, it is still a matter of safety; one can never be too cautious. She watches as the bouquet disappears behind the gates and she turns away. 

“Where you going?” He asks. 

“Back to the festival.” She says, with a furrowed brow. He must have expected her to stay a while, as they did before. There is a thin huff. The cemetery gates whine as one of his hands curls around the iron. 

“Was hopin’ we could talk. I have a question for you.”

“And that is?”

“Do you intend to keep me?” He asks. 

She blushes beet red. Clerics and priestesses of Mila are married to her and only her. Raising children is barely accepted even, unless they too are indoctrinated to her faith. It was the same in Duma’s faith, where she and her mother had fled from. 

“What do you mean?” She asks, voice growing high. “I need explanation.”

The sun fades further and further into the earth, the golden hour rapidly approaching and ending. “Well, you haven’t chased after me with that handful of holy shit for awhile.” He says. “And we talk civilly now.”

She stays quiet. 

“It isn’t proper behaviour for a vamp hunter, let alone a cleric. So I’ve been wondering if you’re plannin’ to keep me or if you’re getting close just to plunge the dagger in my back.” His voice is low, almost a painful lull, throwing her own question back at her. 

“I don’t know what I intend to do.” She says. “I suppose I want more information on your kind.”

“So you intend to keep me?”

“If that is what you want to call it yes, I’ll keep you.” 

“Good.” He says. His face appears against the wrought gates. He holds out one of the forget me nots from Genny’s bouquet. “Come back later, bring your journal.”

Her hands reach out to take the flower, avoiding his fingers. “All right.” She breathes to him. She turns away from the cemetery and goes back to her friends in the town square. She hides the forget me not in her pocket. 

* * *

“Silque, may I have a word?” Celica’s voice is soft and sweet and stops Silque at her chamber door. 

The festival has ended. The priory is thankfully further from the town, but the calls and chatter carry along the sea reaching their little haven. It is mostly dark, some young priest had gone around to light candles and lanterns before they’d arrived home. 

“Of course.” She says, turning to face the princess.

“May it be in your quarters? It’s of private nature.” 

Alarm rises in Silque’s mind. “Yes, of course.” She says, opening the door to her room and shutting it quietly behind her. Celica is kind enough to use her fire spell to light the lantern on the writing desk. Silque sits on the edge of her bed. “What did you want to discuss?”

“I heard you talking with someone tonight.” Celica whispers quietly. 

Simple alarm turns into full-on panic as Silque folds her hands together, resting over her pocket where the forget me not is. “Mae thought you were in trouble, but I talked her down.” Celica draws a little closer, keeping her voice low. “I just wanted to let you know in case you did have someone in your heart.”

Silque feels heat rise up her neck. She shakes her head quickly, fumbling for a no. Celica takes her hands in hers. “Silque, it isn’t a bad thing to have someone you like.” She says, peering closer. “It is one of Mila’s tenets that we love others. To love is to be human.”

Human. Could humans only love? Terrors could not, they only know fighting to survive. But does he—

_ Gods _ . 

“And if you did have someone you were interested in, I could keep Mae and Genny closer to the priory... But only on the promise that you’d stay safe, of course.” Celica offers. She gives a soft giggle. “After all, there’s still that vampire, although we haven’t seen him for a while now...” ‘

Silque thinks about her choice carefully. This is almost too tempting an offer. But she cannot pass up this  chance to learn more about Python and his kind. Silque nods slowly. “Yes, I’d appreciate it if you could keep the girls closer to the priory.”

Celica beams. “Absolutely. You know, it makes me really happy to hear you’ve found someone new.” She  says. “You rely so much on the Mother—it’s important to rely on people too... Seems you’ve learnt that.”

Silque forces a smile as Celica’s voice drops again. “Oh and if I could beg a boon of you?”

“Anything.”

“It’s a selfish little thing, but Mae is showing a lot of interest in Boey. I’d like to see her open her heart to another too.” She says. “Would you be able to look out for the vampire more?”

Oh, this is  _ too  _ good to be true. Silque nods. “Of course. I’d be happy to protect the priory.”

Celica smiles softly. “We are so lucky to have such a devoted soul like yourself Silque.” She breathes. She excuses herself from Silque’s room, leaving the door ajar slightly. When she is gone, Silque lets out a heavy sigh. 

Another lie. Gods, they’re adding up now. But this isn’t just for her: it concerns the rest of the priory, Novis, and can help anyone who must grapple with a vampire. Silque waits until the paces in the hallways stop and prayers fall silent. Guilt washes over her. How can she fraternize with the enemy so easily? He poses a threat to them, should he decide to change his mind and sink his teeth in the body of a fisherman or seamstress or— _ Mila forbid _ —a child...

Her body responds almost automatically, taking the long since cleaned hunter’s dress from her wardrobe and donning it. She ties the dagger and it’s sheath around her waist and her feet take her to the edge of the priory, where Python waits among the trees. Seeing his smile in the dark, Silque’s worries fade.

* * *

Mae is upset when Celica asks her to reorganize the library with Boey one night. Silque is suiting up in her hunting garb, tying her sheath around her waist when she hears Mae’s voice ring loud and clear through the hallway. 

“But Celica, I wanted to take down that bastard!” She cries. “I wanted to throw holy water on him and watch him melt.” 

Holy water. That gives her an idea. She takes her journal: the phrase “ _ bring something to write with _ ” becoming a sign that he’ll share information with her. Most of their meetings end with that command, save for a few weeks where he disappears to the mainland to feed.

She brings her own questions of course, though they’re few and far between and only make for more conversation. From the fountains near the chapel, Silque steals a small vial full of holy water and tucks it into her dress pocket. 

Silque has become the sole hunter now and thankfully too. It makes it easier for Python to come out and wander, saves him guessing if he will be meeting a mage’s face instead of hers. Still, Mae gripes that she wants to torch the bloodsucker alive for what he did to the drained cleric and Genny. But Celica is stern, saying that Mae needs to focus on her own studies and silently, Silque is thankful for Celica’s intervention.

Python always meets her at the edge of the priory, right along the thick treescape that darkens into a dense forest. With time, they decide to abandon the riverside for it is too dark to write under and the lantern that Silque takes becomes asked about too often. After roaming for too long one night, they stopped at the eastern side of the seashore, not too far from the priory but still secluded enough. Mere steps away from being treacherous bluffs, they overlook a small beach. They sit down facing the sea, Silque further back towards the safety of crumbling rocks, while Python paces about the beach, his grey boots growing wet when the tide nips at his feet. Sometimes he’ll sit with her, but most of the time he’ll pace or lay in the sand. Regardless, he tells her secrets and things that disprove almost every theory in her books and mind. A sense of pride washes over her: she has been able to tame a beast, as well as prove scholars wrong and uncover information never disclosed before. And although too much pride is bad to have, Silque revels in it—albeit the smallest bit. 

He kicks his boots through the dirt as she makes notes about holy water on his skin. She brought a little vial with her and it burnt against his body, sizzling like water in a hot cast iron pan. She’d offered gauze again but he refused, instead cussing under his breath and saying that it was a new finding. The angels in her mind encouraged her to throw the rest of the bottle on him, but Silque held fast and ignored them.

“I want to know about your charm.” She says, eyes still on the paper.

“What about it?” He asks.

“Does it work on anyone? Or is it only women?”

He shakes his head. The corner of his lip turns up. “Nah. Anyone really.” He says. “Granted they’re not under Mila’s protection.”

“Right.” She says. 

“Take off your necklace.” He says. Silque simply stares at him, her brow crinkling a little. “See? Didn’t work.”

She rests her journal on her lap, her hands reaching around her neck. The angels begin to get louder now, telling her to keep the necklace on, to run away. She ignores them, pulling off the relic and hearing her mind silence for the first time in ages. He stares at her for a moment.

“Try now.” She says.

He continues to stare for a moment after she sets the necklace on the rock beside her. Almost immediately she is washed in the nausea of his allure. “Come over here.” He orders, his voice deafening in her ears.

Silque’s thoughts are muddy once again, drowning out the _ don’t go _ and  _ stay  _ that her conscience yells at her. The words become quieter and muffled as she pushes herself off of the rock and her journal falls into the sand. His order drowns out all other thoughts and actions. She feels her feet slip through the sand as she moves closer to him. She must remember this, the ache in her chest, the swimming feeling in her head, the lack of control over her body. She wants to tell herself to keep all these thoughts in the front of her mind but they are all drowned out by the lull of his voice, the softness and sternness in it. 

Charm, he calls it. He is attractive like a magnet and she is that of grains of sand on the beach. 

She stands just inches away from him, looking deeply into his tired red eyes. “Give me your hand.” He orders slowly.

She holds it, soft-side up. His fingers graze against her palm, over the soft pink flesh that was once cut by her own blade. It has begun to scar, turning white. She watches as his gaze narrows on the wound, then meets hers again. She feels his intoxicating touch, freezing cold against her warm body. She feels his own wound against hers, although his is not healing, instead degrading further.

Her thoughts are muddy as he drops her hand. He stoops low, her eyes following his. “Go get your necklace and put it back on.” He orders and she follows. Her mind becomes clear again, her lungs filling up with the sea air. She didn’t realize how short of breath she became under his charm. The angels resume their cries for her to runaway and the burning in her back returns.

“How do you do that?” She asks almost breathless. She fumbles with the necklace, catching between her fingers. When she turns around, her eyes widen. His hands are on her journal, flipping through the sermons she’d wrote. Her private hymns for the goddess. She face burns. 

“ _O holy divine Mother, let your feeble children be moulded by your hand. Guide and teach them with your love. Save them as you saved me—_ ” His eyes flicker to hers. “The Mother saved you?” He shakes his head. “What, did she come off her holy throne and dry your tears?”

She stiffens. Few people everyone on the island know about what happened to her before she arrived at the priory. They don’t know what is she, who she is. 

“Yes.” she says, holding out her hand for her journal. “May I have my journal back?”

He laughs a little bitterly, a little softly. “I want to know more about you, Silque.” He says, clapping the book shut.

She can only oblige. It is fair after all. He mentioned his career in the army—albeit without many details—so it is only fair that she give him a little bit. “In my dreams she came to me and told me to hold faith.”

“You don’t look so destitute to me.” 

“I was found at the Greatport as a child.” She says thinly. His face falls from his menacing smile. “My Mother had been... like you are and before the sun rose she aimed to...”

She can’t finish the sentence. Lowly, she adds. “I heard someone calling me to the priory, and it was one of her angels. She saved me from that  _ thing  _ and delivered me to love and guidance.” She says. “I took it as a revelation to be a cleric and a hunter.”

He falls quiet for a moment. His gaze only narrows further on her, as if staring her down will confirm what she said. “I’m sorry.” He rumbles at last, she’s taken aback for a moment.

“Don’t be.” She says.

He holds out her journal and she takes it, flipping back to the half-writ page and documenting her observations. She can only think of the leer he’d given her, spitting about Mila saving her. He obviously wasn’t a believer in Mila in his last life, most definitely in this one too. She sits back against the rock and tries to focus on the paper before her. She stares at it desperately as if it will help her to find the words that describe how muddy her mind had become, how she lost control of her body, how she almost felt like she was in a trance—

His voice breaks the still air. “I have a friend back on the mainland. Sometimes when I travel back to feed, I’ll go past our old encampment to see if he’s there...”

“Do you miss him?”

He meets her gaze. Then he half shrugs. “I just wonder how he’s been keeping. He’s... soft.”

“I’m sure he misses you.” She offers as he sits down on the bluffs beside her. 

The ocean waves begin to rollick in, lapping at his footprints in the sand. He laughs, breathy and not quite joyous or mocking. It’s... pained. “Sure he does.”

* * *

Silque doesn’t have a birthday. She has a founding day. Like everyday she prays to the Mother. But in the night, she lights a candle and makes her only selfish wish—to one day be reunited with her mother. But she can’t even ask for that this year. Instead, she silences her mind against murmuring angels and speaks a hymn of regret.

Python laughs when Silque mentions it’s her founding day.

“Founding day?” He smirks, as if all knowing. “What, were you found by Mila’s holy light this day?"

She pulls his cloak tighter around her frame, her fingers lacing over each other. “No, it’s the day I was  found.”

“Oh, right.” he mumbles. His brow furrows. “But wait… Why don’t you have a birthday?”

“I can’t remember it.” She sheepishly says. Everyone else at the priory has a disclosed birthday, and by default, Silque had said hers was this day. To say she couldn’t remember would cause a ruckus and disturbance—like now. Except the clergy might not take kindly to a Rigelian amongst them as a vampire would.

“You can’t remember your birthday?” 

“Yes. I was young when I left my home and my records were left behind.” She says, staring off towards the sea. The waters are still, almost like a mirror, with two moons and a thousand stars glittering across the glass.

“That’s...” He stops pacing, his boots covered in sand. “Do you know how old you are?”

“I came here in 379. I was 5 years old.” She says. It is one of the only things she can remember about her life before Novis. Or, one of the only things she allows herself to remember about Novis. “Today I’m 22.”

“22.” He echoes, as if living that long is an achievement. It is for a human like her, where broken bones and colds can kill,   


“And dare I ask how old you are?”

Python laughs harshly. “I’m not human so that sorta shit doesn’t matter to me.” He says, turning in the sand. A half moon forms in the sand. 

Her lips purse together. He’s a mystery. 

“But for a human to not know her own birthday? That’s ridiculous!” He says, tsking. “And living in a priory, gods, you never got to try anything fun!”

“You and I have different meanings of the word fun.”

“You think praisin’ Mila and singing hymns on your day is fun?”

She pauses. “What did you do on your birthdays?”

He smirks and shrugs. “Drank. Did some shit. Got--” He stops mid sentence, glancing towards Silque. “Let’s just say drank a whole lot. Bet you can’t do that.”

The mention of alcohol makes her heart race a little faster. It isn’t approved for clerics or priests to drink. Not forbidden, per se, just frowned upon. Heavily.

Silque watches as he pulls a flask from almost out of nowhere. He holds it out to her. “Ram Wine. It’s sweet. You’ll like it.” He says.

“I...”

“Come on. I won’t tell the Mother.” He says, gazing at her with something that isn’t quite disdain or mockery. Something... soft.

Her fingers curl around the flask, raising it to her lips. The wine hits her tongue, both sweet and bitter and briney. She recoils and pulls it away.

Python laughs. Her face heats with a blush. He takes the flask from her hand and hides it away.

“Do you find that funny?” She asks, voice bubbled with the drink.

“Yes.” He says. “You look cute when you’re flustered.”

It makes her swallow the wine. 

* * *

“Have you ever been to mainland Zofia?” Python asks. 

He lays on the beach, the sand crystallizing on his ruined wardrobe. It has changed with the passing seasons: the hacked-at pants have been replaced by a pair of beige trousers, his tunic still boasts blood stains that have dried to a dark red, almost black. His boots, once white as a lily, has been stained and scuffed, matching the disorder of the rest of his outfit. The commander’s cloak remains as it has for the past two years. He has handed it over to her yet again, the nighttime chill leaving him unbothered.

Flostym and Avistym have come and gone with the chill of Pegastym beginning to settle on Novis. Slowly, the island begins to store away more and more food and goods and supplies. Women and children pluck cotton from their fields and make new blankets and clothes with it. Men and some priory hands pull fish from Mila’s seas and dry them, while others chop down the old and dead trees from the forests and prepare plots to plant new ones in the spring.

The priory itself is busy with harvesting their modest crops and storing them for the winter. They are not in store for horrible weather on the island—the worst they may receive is a few heavy rainstorms and dewy grass. However, they are burdened by organizing their tribute to send back to the Temple of Mila. Another year, another request for blessings.

Python turns his face to her, the side of his cheek glittering with grains of sand. “So cleric? Ever been?” His question catches Silque by surprise. It comes out of nowhere: their last conversation had been on garlic. They ended up deducing that he was more or less impervious to it, just hated the smell and taste. He thought it was left over from his human life; he’d always hated it then. She looks up from her journal, thick with notes, crossed out with lines and corrections.

“When I was a child.” She says, pulling his cloak tighter around her. The nights have only served to become colder and colder. 

“Remember it well?”

She shakes her head. “I remember that I visited Rigel.” She says. 

His brow raises with surprise. “Really?”

Silque nods. “My mother was affiliated with them. I can’t remember how.” A lie. She was born into their faith, ran away and only returned when she was pregnant with Silque. She ran away again when Silque was about to be indoctrinated into the Faithful. 

“What do you say to returning?”

Her brow furrows further. “To Rigel?”

He lifts himself up from the ground in the blink of an eye. Glittery grains fall from his face and down to the beach below. He looks... nervous. It is not becoming of a predator, especially in front of his prey. 

“No, to Zofia.” He says, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Hm.” She murmurs.

“It’s still the mainland.” He says, hand falling away from his neck. It hits his thigh lamely. He looks off to the sea, presumably towards Zofia. 

“Why are you asking?” She asks. Her gaze narrows. She is not above playful teasing, something he loves to do with her. “What makes you think I’d like to leave the island with you?”

He laughs lightly. It’s pitiful. “Guess you’re right.” He says.

Silque watches as he paces the beach. She tries to focus on the papers before her, trying to phrase out the words to make sense of what he is, who he is. Her eyes flicker to his back, settling on a bloody handprint on his cloak.

“Why do you want to go to the mainland?” She asks.

He kicks up his boot, sand flying into the air and falling against the still waters. Python half shrugs. “I want to give my friend a conclusion. Mila knows he deserves something.” He admits.

Her eyes widen a little. It’s not a playful matter, not at all. “Why me?” She asks.

“You think I can go to him like  _ this? _ ”

He’s right. She gently closes the cover on her hand, studying his face. She’s the only one—or at least she hopes—that knows about his past, beyond the vampire bit. He rubs the back of his neck again, nervous under her gaze. 

“How long has it been?” She asks. “Since you’ve seen him last?”

“Let’s call it too long.” Python says, taking a step closer. “I was just thinking of a short explanation of why I came to Novis. Without letting out anything he can’t handle, of course. He’s sorta... excitable.”

“And you want me to go to the mainland and tell him?” She asks. 

“I’ll call it even.” He says. “For saving your life.”

A nervousness washes over her. Would that be it? No more talks in the dark about him. No more looking forwards to the sunset and breathless waiting until she heard the quiet of the priory. No running back home before sunrise and afternoon naps into her writing desk? An ending at last. After all, every story has an ending; and a saint does not belong in a demon’s story.

“It’d be a while. A week at the least for traveling. When you rest, I can find you and search for him. We can figure out some lie to tell.”

“A lie?” 

“It’s better than nothing.” He says. 

He’s right. But lying is a sin against Mila. Oh, but is she not lying to Celica about the man she sees in the night? Is she not lying to Nomah when he asks why she yawns so often? And to poor Genny when she has to wake her at dawn for their morning rites? She’s come this far and the ending is now in sight.

“I’ll stay on the mainland after that. A debt repaid.” He says, then laughs a little. “Who knows, maybe I’ll sink my teeth into Rigel.”

It is such a tempting offer. One that she both wants and does not. Yet the safety of Novis overpowers her own selfish desires. Besides, there are churches on the mainland she could always—

Silque stops the thought in its tracks. She pushes some hair behind her ear. “All right.” She nods and then meets his gaze. “I’ll go.”

“Really?”

She nods. “It is a debt repaid then.”

“It will be.” He promises her. In the back of her mind, she wonders if promises are forever. 

* * *

Wyrmstym arrives. The harvest is collected and stored and soon Mila calls for her tribute all across Zofia. Nomah is weary to send Celica after the attack; while she was not hurt there is still anxiety in sending her away. As well, it may be better to keep her close by and speed her studies. If she learns quicker than she may ascend the throne faster. In the end, that is their goal.

Their tribute is light this year, thankfully. In the end, Nomah asks Celica to stay on the island and instead asks for someone to go in her place. He is almost shocked when Silque volunteers to go in the princess and her handmaiden’s stead. “Are you certain you can brave this trip, Sister?” Nomah asks.

“I can handle anything, Sage Nomah.” She says with confidence and determination. In the end he accepts her offer, and she is blessed finally as a cleric. Before she leaves, she devotes herself to daylong prayers, as Celica and Mae would have done. In the warm glow of Mila’s servant she feels cold. Nothingness. It is not like when she began her oath to the Mother, when she was filled with her love and warmth. But it is her path now, that of a cleric. Perhaps it is normal with other Brothers and Sisters... Or perhaps it is because the Mother knows why she is leaving Novis. She is not sure.

As a gift for her pilgrimage and ascension, Silque is given a new dress—a long white robe with a purple petticoat, decorated with gold details and marks of Zofia. The final, and heaviest part, is a white veil that covers the blunt edge of her hair. It is a ceremonial marker, a symbol of a holy woman. In whole it is a heavy outfit with heavy meaning: she is to be devoted to Mila and only her until the day she dies. 

The Greatport is bustling and loud when Silque is set to leave. Only a few people board the ship—many will take advantage of Novis’s warmth and stay the winter. It is mostly cargo that will be shipped: products of shieldfish and cotton and whatever holy relics were made will be transported to Zofia Harbour and sold by merchants there.

Celica and Genny and Mae and Boey all come to bid her farewell at the Greatport. They offer her hymns, prayers and blessings for her mission and safe travels. It is bright outside but cool with winter chill. The heavy dress manages to keep her warm, and thank all goodness it does. She can’t carry much save for a few provisions, the tribute and whatever marks the priory was able to give her. 

“Are you worried, Sister?” Genny asks.

“I suppose I have a bit of anxiety.” Silque murmurs.

“Aw, don’t you worry Silque,” Mae says. “The ride over is nothing but a few waves and a week! And besides, you have nothing to fear for Novis! We’ll take care of that damn vamp for you!”

“Yes we will. He’ll rue the day he came to Novis.” Boey agrees, then says something about torching him. Mae is quick to knock him down, but Celica steps in. 

“Sister Silque should board now. We wouldn’t want her to miss the voyage.” Her agate eyes flicker to everyone. “Safe travels Silque. We await your safe return.”

Silque bows her head, the edges of the veil brushing against her cheeks. She hasn’t grown used to it yet. “Thank you.” She breathes.

In a soft cacophony of holy voices, the mages, princess and cleric breathe a blessing to Silque as she turns away. “May you always walk in the light of Mila’s Blessing.”

Her feet carry her to the gangplank that leads up to the ship. She stares at it for a moment, the tribute heavy in her hands and her head swimming with memories. Her boots grind against the cobblestone, hesitation stopping her. The last time she was on a ship she had lost her mother. What is to say that she would not die herself this time? It is a scary thought, one that strikes fear right into her marrow.

She looks back to Celica, Mae, Boey and Genny, their eyes all intently on her. They are relying on her to deliver the tribute, but also to lead Python away from their seaside haven. She knows he has been amenable to her, but who is to say he’d be willing to listen to Boey or Mae? And while he is in the ship’s belly right now, he could easily slip out and stay on the island if she decided to say.

“ _ Come on you can do this. _ ” Python whispers over the lapping sea waves. His voice reaches her ears. Her grasp tightens on the leather satchel and canvas bag. She turns on her heel and walks up the gangplank, waving one final goodbye to her friends. Mae gives a loud, howling whistle and applause. She sheepishly blushes, lifting her hand high in a final goodbye to her family before moving past the ship hands and to the bowels of the ship. 

When she finds a comfortable cot and lays down to rest, she hears his voice again. “Nice job, cleric. Good one.”

Silque longs to speak with him, but it is not safe to speak so candidly, not even at night. While ship is mostly cargo, there are still few civilians who would flutter nervously like birds without heads if they knew a vampire was a stowaway. Instead, Silque devotes herself to holy prayer for safe passage, to repay this debt without falter. She takes out her journal occasionally—a different one, it is to be a cleaner copy of her notes, one that may be published one day. She works from memory, recalling as much as she can and leaving extra pages blank when she doesn’t remember. She will fill them up when she returns to Novis.

After several long days and nights of travel, they arrive to the mainland. Silque, who was dozing, bolts upright when the ship stops. The few civilians begin to get antsy, making a break for the top of the ship. From her cot, Silque clasps her hands together and quickly thanks Mila for the safe passage. Quickly, the passengers are let off the ship.

Her legs are wobbly from the voyage and she takes a moment to regain her balance. She retrieves the bag of tribute and her own small leather bag of belongings. The plan was to head into the harbour and begin towards the Temple. She established that as her priority and Python had agreed. The harbour is bright with nightlife. The stalls have all closed down but taverns and inns are alive with music and lights. No doubt they will go onto into the wee hours, much to the ire of fishermen.

She feels a presence at her elbow. She pulls the canvas bag of tribute closer to her person and glances behind her. Silque almost does not recognize him, save for the jarring red eyes. Python looks almost different, not quite a monster anymore. He must have bathed, washing away the blood from his face and hands; his claws are trimmed back and the dark circles under his eyes aren’t as noticeable. His clothes are even clean and well-fitting for once.

“ _ Python? _ ” She asks, unsure if it’s truly him.

“Silque.” He says softly. She notices the lull in his voice, he’s probably trying to use his charm to comfort her. She hears the whispers of Mila’s angels in her ears to not listen to the devil, her relic working to protect her. His voice. She blinks in confusion as he grabs the canvas bag from her. “This first. To the Temple.”

* * *

Their march is brutal. It pours rain and there are brigands. She marches in the day while he hides in the shadows, and at night he catches up while she clutches her holy relic and prays for sleep. When they finally reach the Temple it is cloudy. 

She is brought before Mila’s personal idol to offer the food. The Mother will not see anyone. While Python waits outside in the shadows, she feels the inescapable warmth of the Temple, different to her blessing as a cleric. Once, very long ago, she wanted to serve here as one of Mila’s personal clerics. This warmth and kindness that the Temple has fills her full with love, with purpose. Her vocation, everything she’s ever known, is here in this holy structure. Her hunger dissipates, her aching soles fade, her exhaustion is cured, all by the Temple.

The Idol Room is full of bounties, probably to be offered in ceremonial gifts by a saint or sage in due time. The canvas bag of shieldfish is labelled from Novis and left with the other offerings. There are bottles of wine from down south, fruits and herbs from the east and soft silks from the west. The tribute Mila accumulates is great. Silque wonders if she uses it all for her otherworldly magic or spares some for her needy children.

Silque kneels before the Idol, offering one of the pieces of the shieldfish and a prayer. As she lifts her head, her brow furrows. A ghostly voice fills the Idol Room. It is reminiscent of the same voice that saved her from death that night, the one that called her to the priory.

“Child of Light, why do you spurn the Mother?”

A bit of panic runs through her.

It speaks again. “To hunt her dead and flirt with death is a sin for a cleric.”

Her eyes flicker open, the lifeless gaze of the Idol on her. She looks up into the Idol’s soulless eyes. “Abandon faith, and you will have  _ nothing _ .”

“Earth Mother?” She asks, awestruck. The Idol Room suddenly feels cold. Her heart begins to ache, as if Nosferatu is being turned back on her. Her eyes flicker around the room, the air growing frigid. “Please, this is only to spare Novis any more loss and bloodshed—“

“ _ Enough _ .” The servant’s voice is shrill and harsh. “You have ignored the warnings of your relic. This is your final warning Silque of Novis, heed it well: the devil only wants you because you are willing to give him some of your life. Some of your blood.”

The warning weighs heavy on her, like an invisible cross to bear. She should go back to Novis. She will. After she helps Python close this chapter, she will return to the island and marry herself to the goddess as a saint... That is, if they will have her. She doubts they will now. Although there is still a chance, like if he stays on the mainland and joins a new church. She could write a letter to those in the priory, tell them that things have changed and—

_ Another  _ lie. Uncouth, unholy, _heretic_ for a cleric of Mila. If she can even call herself that now. Mila’s servants have issued her a warning. She winces softly. A choice.

There are footsteps. The door to the idol room creeping open as she stands. The pain fades from her body, basked in warmth and love once again. It makes her heart race; so easily the Mother can remove her love and blessings from her. 

Another priest comes through the door, offerings from his home added to the pile. Silque quickly hurries outside, her thoughts consumed with all but the warning. It is warm outside, bright and barely mid morning, but she barely registers anything aside from the warning. She only checks that she is on her way to the borderlands and lets her feet carry her there. The entire time, her the angels in her mind scream at her to run to a church of Mila and devise a way to get back to Novis. But Silque knows she cannot leave this job unfinished. The only thing she can do is walk away her guilts and pain. 

By nightfall, she reaches a small inn just outside of a tiny town. The lights are still on and the door unlocked. It’s not an uncommon thing, especially for vacant inns. The night chill melts off of her as she steps inside the warm inn. 

A thin blonde woman in a pink dress greets her. Her eyes trace from Silque’s veil to the tips of her boots. She wipes her wet hands on an apron. “Evening.” She greets.

“Good evening. Do you have any vacancy?” She asks, too tired and struck to take in the sights of a home, not a Zofian priory, not a Rigelian church: someone’s home.

“We do.” She says softly, noticing how tired Silque is. She can only imagine that her face is stark with worry and exhaustion. “Just the night, Sister?”

The cleric nods, reaching into her bag for the coin purse. Python had given them to her after she’d told him that most of the money she had would be used for food. When he had given her the money and she asked why he had it, he said he had little use for earthly things.

From her hip, the innkeeper takes a little key. “You’ll be on the second floor, last door on the right.” She says, handing Silque the key. “We have leftover soup if you are hungry.”

Food is the last thing she needs. Her stomach churns with nervousness and disgust. She shakes her head quickly. “No thank you.”

“There’s also a bathroom upstairs, if you want to wash up Sister.” The innkeeper offers. Water. It will provide comfort, calm, clarity.

“Yes, thank you.” She breathes as the innkeeper runs boils water for her. Silque white knuckles the bannister and trods up the stairs. She barely takes in the room before the innkeeper is calling her for the bath. 

Silque can only manage a soft ‘ _ thank you _ ’ and holds tight to the door frame. The innkeeper says something else, but it doesn’t reach her ears. She had hoped it would bring her back down from the skies above. Unlike before at the riverside, it does nothing but scald her skin and washes away dirt.

* * *

Silque is pulled from her light slumber by Mila’s angels whispering in her ears. They warn of danger, for her to get away. Her eyes open, staring at the wood panelled wall. There is no shadow but someone is in her room. Her eyes nervously drag from the wood to the edge of her bed. Beside the washbasin, someone stands. 

She had locked the door behind herself, she swears she did. In a breath, she begins to mumble the words to Nosferatu. Her mind panics, How could someone get in—

“Relax, it’s me.”

Silque recognizes his rough voice. “Mila, you scared me.” She breathes, clutching her necklace tightly. She blocks out the angels’ cries. With her spell, she lights a candlestick beside her bed and notices that he’s once again smeared with blood. His hands are caked with it.

She’s attacked by nervousness. The angels become too loud now, hissing in her ears and their claws in her back, forcing her away. She swallows back nausea and anxiety. “What did you do?” He does not look sated or calm like he usually does after he’s been fed. Instead he looks like he’s consumed by anger and guilt. “Python?”

“Don’t be scared.”

“You say that but it only worries me more.” She whispers, gathering sheets in her grip. She forgot that he was able to do such horrible things, to take life. He’d been coming to the mainland to feed, drinking pirates’ blood to keep himself alive. Surely she’d forgotten, he had been removed from her sight. Of course she’d forget about how he could be, what he was.

He is agonizingly slow to speak. “I saw someone I once knew.” He says.

“And?”

He rubs his face, a smear of blood running along his cheek. “The bastard doesn’t deserve it but... can you bless a body?” He asks.

Her eyes widen as he steps closer to her. Her nails drive into her palms between the thin sheets. “It’s the last thing I’ll ask for.” She says. “I’ll leave you alone forever.”

Silque flushes and panic overtakes her. She shies back a little onto her bed. Part of doesn’t want him to leave her alone, but another part does. She wishes to be nothing more than another cleric and happy and living in her humble priory making prayers to the Goddess with blissful ignorance. But she still longs to know him, and not  _ just  _ the vampire. 

“Tell me what happened and why you did it.” She demands in a low whisper. “And I’ll consider it.”

He holds her gaze for a minute. “It’s personal.”

“That is not enough. Now tell me.” She says again, this time more stern.

His red eyes are glassy in the candlelight. Python rubs the back of his neck, his gaze focusing somewhere else. “I saw my bastard father. I lost it.”

Silque shuts her eyes, hands reaching to the pendant. The angels hush when she touches the clay. She sucks back a nervous breath, bracing herself.

“He hit my mother when I was young. Bastard alcoholic killed her.” He croaks, sounding more like a fragile human. “I couldn’t stand it and left for the army. I saw him and he looked... he was old and alone and I lost it. Why should he live when she died?”

She did not know her own father and he easily killed his with the slash of a hand. He is not to be judge, jury or executioner; that is Mila’s decision alone or some horrible fate’s choice. But an unblessed body may rise again, become a Terror and hurt Mila’s living children. Or as he had said before, become like him.

“Bastard didn’t even recognize me.” He says in a thin, fragile voice. It is not his own.

”You still hate him?” She asks. Her eyes lift to his. 

He holds her gaze for a moment, then he nods. “More than anything.”

“Mila says to forgive those who have hurt us.” Python looks away again. “But sometimes there is nothing that will allow us to forgive. I could not forgive the thing that took my Mother away from me, I still can’t. I’ll bless your father’s body. But his spirit will be sent to hell.”

“That’s where it should go.” He says.

Silque casts off the sheets from herself. She swallows back nervousness and stands up, reaching for her leather satchel. “Show me to the body.” 

* * *

It is little more than an old man’s corpse. Python hid it under a thick blanket of fallen foliage. The body is bruised and mangled, blood clumping against the frozen leaves below. Python pulls the corpse out and digs a hole in the solid earth while Silque swallows back vomit and blesses the body. She regrets bringing a lantern. 

It is painful to say, but this is not the first blessing she has done before. She never enjoyed it. The fetor of death is all around and makes her stomach sick. She closes her eyes and bows her head, saying a prayer that his soul will receive judgement for his reprehensible sins. When the grave is dug, Python steps out and drags the body in. He shoves on dirt as she speaks.

“By Mila’s grace, guide this lost soul to the Mother and judge him accordingly.” She says quietly, watching as the body is covered with soil. “As her word commands, so it shall be.”

Silence falls between them as Silque speaks another quiet prayer. When she opens her eyes again, Python is staring at her. “Thank you.” He says thinly, his voice weak against the calls of Mila’s angels. They’ve begun to get louder now, more panicked.

He begins to walk away. Panic swallows her whole. She clutches her hands into fists to stop herself from reaching out for him. “ _ Wait! _ ” She calls.

“You don’t owe me anything else. Now go back to Novis. I’ll figure something out for Forsyth.”

“Stop!” She calls again, grabbing the lantern and running after him. “I don’t want you to go!”

He slows a little. Her boots grind against the frozen earth. 

“I know how horrible it is to not be able to say goodbye.” Silque calls helplessly. “I want to help you say farewell to your friend. Then I’ll go back to Novis.”

He glances over his shoulder. “Really? Out of pity?” 

She shakes her head. “No. I want to help you.” She says. “I never got to say goodbye to my mother before she died. You should have that with your friend.”

He turns to her. His red gaze narrows and trails down to her before stopping on her own. He takes a step closer, just a few inches before her face. She feels the chill of death radiate off him. The angels silently scream in her ears.

“Please, I want to help.” She begs.

“You’re certain?”

She nods.

“You truly are a saint then.” He says, lips crooking into a sad smile. “Hope heaven’s got room in it’s ranks for you.”

“If you say so. With all I’ve done, I think hell would prefer to take me.”

He laughs harshly. “You couldn’t be more wrong, Silque.” 


	3. Forsythia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silque's journey comes to an end... as does her time with Python.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wish we didnt make it to 69 hits til today bc theres softcore in this chapter n i wanted that gratification of hitting 69 n then posting softcare but cant win them all. also you can still nab the pdf which has a special one shot of lukas and python bonding!  
> if ur not here for a vamp n holy woman making out, stop at "I won't leave until sunrise" n skip to "This made things horribly complicated." u'll be smooth sailing from then on. sorta.
> 
> some context: faye is much older in this fic, think around her forties. the ram villagers, alm excluded, are all older too. tobin n faye left their villages to help earn wages in the army where they fell in love. faye leaves the army, while tobin sticks around to make a wage (they the inn together when he's around). posey is their daughter (she eventually becomes a cavalier with her dad's horse heyo). this is faybin propaganda bc feh said so.  
> penelope is a pegasus knight who trained with forsyth n python at the borders of zofia and rigel. she's supposed to be the girl to fit into forsyth's ending where python dies.

They retreat back into the inn. Silque says it at least—she needs rest. All the walking, the prayers and the screams of angels have left her weak. She manages to sneak back into her room without waking the rest of the inn. Python is already there when she unlocks the door. He’s lit candle again, to give them light.

She pauses for a moment, staring at him intently as he eases against her unmade bed. A mirror is poised against the little washbasin in the corner. She pours the water from the pitcher into the basin and pulls a washcloth from a little stack on the ledge. 

“Python.” She whispers. He looks up when she speaks. “May I?”

“You think a vamp needs to look pretty?” He asks, coy and playful.

“We want to keep appearances, correct?” She says. “Besides, you looked nicer when you weren’t bloodied.”

She dunks the washcloth in the water. It is cold against her trembling hands. When she looks up, he stands in front of her with a smirk in the crook of his lips. Her mind is loud with the calls of angels that she tries to drown out. “Only because you think I’m handsome when I’m cleaned up.” He jeers playfully. “And take off your necklace before you start.”

“No funny stuff then.” She orders with a canny gaze. She doubts he would try anything after blessing the body... But one can never be too safe. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it Silque.”

Her hands reach behind her neck, unclasping the latch. She sets it on the ledge of the washbasin. Taking the washcloth in her hands, she stands on the tips of her toes and wipes off the smears on his chin and cheeks. From the corner of her eye, she notices his hand lift. His fingers touch the edge of her veil. She tenses. 

“This is new.” He says quietly, his voice almost a gentle whisper. “Come to think of it, this isn’t your hunter’s uniform or that pretty dress from the festival.”

“It’s the clothes of a cleric.” She says, trying to focus on the smudges of blood that do not want to fade. “The veil is a symbol of marriage.”

“Marriage?” He asks, almost laughing. “You look pretty young to be married.”

“It’s a marriage to Mila.” She says, taking his hand from her veil. It is freezing cold, dirty and bloody. She gently wipes away the night with the washcloth. “It is something holy and sacred. Like my path to walk.”

He stares at the veil for a moment, then she feels his gaze on her. Her eyes turn to the tiny mirror. While it is small, she had expected to see two figures in the candlelight. Instead, it is just Silque, holding a washcloth to the empty air. “Oh.” She gasps.

He follows her curious gaze. “Huh. Forgot about that.” Python says.

Silque’s eyes move between him and the empty place in the mirror. “Mirrors don’t work on vamps.” He says. “No soul to reflect back.”

“I disagree.” She says quietly, staring unabashedly up at him. 

He glances back to her, scoffing quietly. She looks away, feeling his eyes on her as she stands on the tips of her toes again, swaying slightly as she tries to keep balance. She wipes away a smear of dirt above his eyebrow. She feels his hand on her arm, bracing her. Fighting a flush, she scrambles for somewhere else to focus other than his gaze. They flicker to the sharp steeps of his cheeks, the angular curve of his nose, his pale lips.

“I stole you some bread from the kitchen.” He offers.

“I shouldn’t have.”

“You’re swaying like you’re about to faint. Last thing you need to do is pass out.”

He is right. That would delay her return to Novis even later. But... would that  _ truly  _ be bad? She knows she doesn’t want to leave him yet; she tells herself that there is still much more to learn about him, and the mirror is only more proof. How many more things could they have forgotten to talk about. And he told her not to try summoning him with her blood again, so that put contacting him out of the question—

“Just eat it okay?” He says, pulling her out of her reverie. 

She lowers herself back onto the flats of her feet, dunking the cloth in the water and ringing it out twice. The hand that holds her arm doesn’t move, doesn’t falter. It is unnerving. She looks up in the mirror again, this time at her own flushed reflection. He is not there; he is a soulless vampire. Mirrors are reflections of the soul.

“You’ve got some dirt on your cheek. Let me.”

His hand leaves her arm and she takes a breath again. His fingers graze her palm, taking the washcloth from her. He isn’t using his charm for she feels something else holding her down—if he was using it, she would feel like she was being dragged away by some imaginary currents and she wouldn’t be able to think. This is something different, pulling him to her.

_ Him to her? _

He takes her face in his cold hand. It is freezing and sends a chill down her spine. He dabs at the smears of dirt on her cheek, dragging the cloth softly along her cheek. Thankfully, he is gentler than when he stopped her from screaming. She tries again to focus somewhere else, settling on the picture of a pressed bunch of wildflowers behind him. 

“Python.” She breathes.

“Silque.” She feels his red eyes on hers. She continues to watch the flowers, trying to name them. They’re not the ones that she likes, like forget me nots or foxglove or forsythia. Mainland flowers are different than Novis flowers.

“What will you do after we have seen Forsyth?” She asks.

His face grows stark. “I’ll stay here like I promised.” He says. “Leave your priory alone. Though I’ll miss our game.”

“Game?” 

“You chasing me around Novis with a holy dagger and a fistful of black magic?” He says, with a twisted little laugh. “Our little game. It’s a lot of fun. Like fate's fair game.”

“You called that a game?” 

“I never hurt anyone.” He says before sheepishly adding. “Except that cleric, but it was a misunderstanding.”

He tilts her chin upwards, her eyes meet his for a moment. She takes in every feature in the blink of an eye. “Will you miss our game?”

“I never saw it as one.”

“Really? Chasing each other around the island wasn’t a game to you?”

“I suppose we have different understandings of what a game is.” She says thinly. “Though I will miss your knowledge. I’m certain your kind has more to discover than the history of our lands.”

A smirk crooks in his lips. “You could stay with here. I’m certain any church would take you.”

“Novis is my home.” 

He shrugs. Python gazes at her with such interest. Perhaps he is only breathing in her springtime scent that intoxicates him, or maybe he is truly thinking about her staying on the mainland. She will never know.

She allows herself to look at him, the flush fading and replaced with his now-comforting chill. He does not look quite young, nor old. She doubts he will say his true age if she asks. He never said so before, so she will continue to guess. His hair is dyed two tones; the indecisiveness of youth. But he carried himself in a way that suggested he was tired of everyone, like a crusty old man. There are dark circles underneath his red eyes, which she can’t tell if it is age or a trait of vampires. The lines blur like lines of sand on a long beach. 

His hand lingers from her chin and back to the edge of her veil. “It doesn’t suit you.” He says.

“The veil or the statement it makes?”

“Both.” He says. Gently, he pulls at the cloth and it slips away with little effort. She feels... lighter now, like a weight is lifted off of her shoulders. “You look prettier when you’re plain.”

She stays quiet, only glancing away to her necklace. She takes it in her hands and loops it over her neck. Immediately, Mila’s angels begin to hiss in her ears. His smirk fades as she looks away. 

“You’d better get some rest thn.” He says. “And eat.”

She nods, pushing a lock of hair behind her ear. “I should.”

“Thank you again.” He almost whispers, only to her. 

“It was my privilege.” She says, the words meant only for him.

* * *

Python isn’t there when she wakes. He’s probably slipped out to the forest hide until nightfall. It’s a cool, cloudy day outside. The sun shows no chance of peeking through the thick clouds. For a moment, she lays there and wonders if he could slip out and walk beside her as they head for the borderlands. 

No. He couldn’t risk the sun hitting his cheeks and turning him to ash. She wouldn’t want him to either—

Gods, could she think about something other than him for just a moment? What will she do when he is gone? It’s not like they’re...  _ together _ . After all, it’s just as Mila’s servant warned her: this devil only wants her because he’s got some of her life. She is doing a favour for him, a kindness although he knows nothing of the word and it’s meaning. How will she go on after this chapter of her life ends? What was she before it? It’s hard to remember something other than running through the forest, eyes on that torn cloak all night long. 

But she remembers one thing. She was holy before. She dutifully prayed to Mila at daybreak and nightfall, before every meal, after every minor job. At every hour the Mother was in her thoughts. She wrote sermons praising her, she sang hymns blessing her, she was one of her obedient children. Now she is not. She may wear the dress of a cleric, but she is certainly not holy, nor a saint. Although she is the only one who can see it. She pulls herself from her bedsheets and clutches the edge of the washbasin. There in the mirror, looking back at her with dark circles under her eyes and a glassy gaze, is the sinner in the saint’s clothes. 

Silque looks down into the bowl, the water dark with blood and dirt. She glances out the window, making sure no one is outside and near and dumps the dirty water. She pours the rest into the bowl and washes her face. The water is cold and barely comforting... Strange, she’s come to associate cold with him. She identifies any sort of chill, with him. Whenever she feels it, a bit of calm washes over her. The water won't take away her regrets or her doubts. It won’t do much but take the dirt out of her hair and distract her for a moment. But she needs that short distraction from life. She needs it desperately.

Silque brushes her fingers through her hair and reaches for the veil on the corner of the basin’s porcelain top. Her fingers graze against the cloth for a moment. 

It doesn’t suit her. Did he mean that she wasn’t holy, or that it was too much for her simple tastes? She does not know, supposes that she never will.

In a spur of the moment decision, she shoves the cloth into her leather bag, wishing to never see it again. Silque can hear the inn come to life, beds creaking through thin walls as people wake. She collects the rest of her meagre belongings and takes the key the innkeeper supplied her with. She’s finally able to look at the inn and absorb it. 

It’s small, with wood paneling walls that looks expensive. There’s more flower pressings and even a tapestry hanging along the staircase. At the bottom of the steps, there’s a bookcase, filled with hardback books. A surprising sight: the owner of the house must be educated. Reading is still a privilege to this day.

Before Silque realizes, she’s standing in the front room. Against the wall is a fireplace that burns sun-like embers on dying firewood. Over the mantle is a large coat of arms that looks almost royal. Two rapiers are crossed amongst the treelike crest of the Zofian family. She briefly thinks of Python’s cloak, buried in the bottom of her leather bag. There’s two well-kept armchairs facing a window. It’s large, overlooking a picturesque view of the Valentian countryside. It’s brushed with frost, no snow though. Perhaps the Mother spares Zofia from the snow and ice.

Silque feels eyes on her. Silque turns around and barely catches a glimpse of a mousy-haired little girl in a yellow frock. Her brown eyes grow wide and she runs back to the kitchen, calling for her mother. She takes a step closer, gripping the strap of her leather bag tightly. 

“Posey, it’s just a guest, not a ghost. Don’t be so silly."

She stops in the doorframe when the innkeeper comes around the corner. The little girl is behind her leg. They must be mother and daughter. 

“See?” The innkeeper says to the little girl. “Sorry. Morning Sister. 

“Good morning.” Silque says back. 

“Care for some breakfast? You look about ready to head out.”

“Yes, please.” Silque says, following the woman into the kitchen. Like the front room it is also large. In the corner is a cookstove, new and fancy, with counter space that is filled with clean dishes. There’s a long table in the middle of the room, with two chairs at either end and a wooden bench on either side. There’s two bowls of porridge at the head and on the bench to the left. Silque takes a seat at the edge of the bench.

“You’re missing your veil. Did it rip?” The woman asks, bringing over a bowl for Silque. Her other hand holds the little girl’s. Pink ribbons stick out of her pocket.

She catches Silque by surprise, her hand reaching up to touch a strand of her baby blue hair. “Oh... Yes it did.”

“I could sew it before you leave, if you’d like.”

Silque scrambles. “Oh no that’s not necessary... There’s specific rules to follow.” The little girl’s eyes are focused on her. 

“I see.” The woman nods. Her fingers tap against the table, pulling her daughter from a wide-eyed reverie.

“Where are you travelling to Sister? The Temple?” The woman asks, keeping conversation between bites of porridge. 

“Yes, the Temple.” She says. 

“You’re a cleric there?”

“Only visiting.” Silque says. “I hail from the Novis priory.”

“That little island out east? That’s quite a journey for such a short amount of time.” She sighs. “Duties to the Temple and all that, right?”

“Indeed.” Silque says, tasting the porridge between words. It’s sweet and warm; a good meal after a bad night.

“I saw you looking at our coat of arms. You recognize it?”

Silque nods. “The Zofian royal family crest.” 

The woman smiles. “My husband is a commander. He is away with work at the moment, but we run this inn together.”

“It is a beautiful home you have.”

“Thank you.” She says. “What is your name, Sister?”

“Silque.” She watches as she moves her daughter’s bowl closer to her hands. The little girl’s gaze moves from Silque and back to her meal. “And your name, ma’am?”

“It is Faye.” The innkeeper says. She reaches out to touch her daughter’s nose. The younger’s face scrunches up. “And this is my daughter, Posey.”

“It is lovely to meet you both.” Silque says as she begins to spoon at her porridge. It is sweet on her tongue, a nice change from salty and bitter shieldfish and provisions. Real food, warm and filling. 

Faye moves between finishing her bowl of porridge and tying Posey’s hair with the pink ribbons from her pocket. They eat in silence until the little girl turns her head as Faye brushes her hair. “Mommy, can I ask the cleric something?” The little girl asks.

“No Posey, let the Sister eat in peace.” Faye says.

“But Mommy—“

Silque leans towards the little girl, gingerly touching the table. Her fingers are just shy of her arm. “What is your question, Posey?” Silque asks softly.

“Papa said that ghosts always wear white. Are you a ghost?” Posey asks, eyes as wide as saucers.

She might as well be. What with all these lies and slander against Mila’s holy name. Running around with a vampire and catching feelings for—

She shakes her head. “I’m no more dead than you are.” She forces a smile. “I can’t be a ghost.”

The little girl doesn’t look convinced. Silque’s heart pangs with worry.

“I’m sorry.” Faye says. “She’s got an overactive imagination. Gets it from her father.”

“Do not worry. It’s quite endearing.” Silque says.

Faye pulls her daughter away to help with cleaning up, as other guests come down stairs and help themselves to a hot meal. When she’s finished, she begins to leave, thanking Faye for the hospitality. The mother and daughter see her out to the front door.

“How does it go?” Faye says more to herself. Her face brightens as she remembers. “Ah. Walk in the light of the Mother’s blessing, Silque.” 

The words strike guilt into her. Heat washes over her face, her fingers clenching around the strap of her bag. Feeling tears water in her eyes, she bows her head and says a quick prayer for Faye and her daughter and feels a pit form in her stomach.   


* * *

Python told her to follow the trodden path to the borderlands. He said that he would watch over her as she walked the path and would catch up when night began to fall. It is weatherbeaten, scattered with dying leaves that begin to breakdown in the cold air. The inn fades from her view, becoming nothing more than a shallow memory of fear. The winds grows colder and colder as she closes in towards Rigel.

Images come to her mind as she thinks of the north. Of life before Novis. They’re blurry, unfocused. Nothing she can clearly recall. Only a little church in the mountains, with rows of dying crops and infertile vineyards. It’s nothing show at state to remember, being frank. 

The path is straightforward—almost like a highway between the two countries. Border crossings are illegal by divine decree, but people always find a way around the laws of their gods. After all, Mila and Duma have easily turned blind eyes to the sufferings of their children, why would they care about something as small as crossing an invisible divider?

Borders. It reminds her of Novis. She wonders how her family fares. Mae has probably run around their forests and sworn she almost caught the vampire; and Boey has most certainly called her bluff on it. She prays that nothing of note has occurred, except blessings or happy news... Like Celica and Mae mastering tricky the Ragnarok and Aura spells that gave them problems. Maybe even Boey improving his prowess to learn white magic... That would be a sight, the boy healing injuries instead of coming to Genny with them. For a moment, it brings a smile to her face.

But then she remembers that she is lying to them. She has not left Novis to deliver their tribute to the Mother’s temple, but also to help their enemy more than once. What would they think? Would they shun her? Chase her out? Damn and curse her?

Her mind grows painfully full, and Mila’s angels begin to whisper quietly in her ears. She wishes they would shut up and stay silent instead of rubbing salt into her deep wounds.

The borderlands are eerily peaceful. They are both thick with trees and brush, and bare with rolling meadows. In the flat distance—far away or close in perspective, Silque cannot tell—she sees clumps of white. Snow. 

That must be Rigel. Or close to it at least. It looks quiet, almost calm. But Python’s warnings to stay vigilant are loud in her ears. There is no telling who or what lingers beyond the border. And she herself does not know if the relic around her neck will protect her outside of the Earth Mother’s domain. 

The sun begins to fade along the pines. Beyond the path, some hundred yards out, she can see barricades built tall. It is the village that he spoke of, Forsyth’s home. The ending is literally in sight...

As is Python. He appears in flash, right at her elbow. The voices of Mila’s angels quickly grow louder, the invisible claws catching in her skin along her spine. Her back aches with white magic. 

“He’s busy now.” He says as the sun dissipates into a dark twilight. He pulls off his cloak, holding it out to her. His tunic is still bloodied and ruined, no change. She wonders why she expected one. 

The voices raise in her head as she reaches out to take it, becoming painfully loud for a second and dying quickly when she steps away to wrap it around her shoulders. “How—“

“I went by his place.” He says, the evening chill fades underneath the cloak. She stops walking, seeing the town through the bowers and pine needles. It is a tiny town, no more than fifty people. The land is cold and freezing over, frosted with ice that will become dewy in the morning. Stopping makes her feet ache and she suddenly longs for the bed at the inn.

Python doesn’t say a word. Could he... not want this to end too? Does he feel the same about the end? No,  _ never _ . He only cares about her because she’s doing him this favour. He paces nervously, his worry becomes hers. He is no longer smug or smarmy. All that annoying cheer has washed away like a stream. He’s quiet, withdrawn. 

She tries out some simple chatter to calm him down. “It’s a pretty village.” She says in her softest voice. “Everyone must know each other well. Close knit probably.”

He doesn’t answer, instead beginning to walk into the forest. She follows him, her fingers curling nervously around the strap of her bag. Her trods along after him, through the breaks in the tree line. 

“Should we prepare?” She asks trying to fill the silence as best she can. 

“Suppose so.” He murmurs back to her. 

“Now, will I introduce myself first and say you’re coming after the sunset, or...” she trails off. 

He falls silent.

“Python?”

“You’re gonna lie to him.”

Her brow raises, she stops in the wood. “Pardon?”

“I thought that was clear, that you’d be speaking in my place.”

“It is a sin to lie.”

“Well you’re already runnin’ with a vamp.” He says lowly. “What’s one more sin to the collection?”

She hates that he’s right. When she returns to the priory, she will sit confessional and tell Celica all her sins. She’ll wear that veil and never leave the holy grounds again, devoting herself to the faith day and night. In time, and by Mila’s patience, she may be absolved from her guilt and sins.

“I’m begging you, Silque.” He says, looking over his shoulder. His red gaze, the one that had scared her when she first met it, softens as if to plead too. “Please lie for me.”

It is a tenet belief that clerics and priests must not withhold help from the needy. And after all, there is no clause forbidding to help those who aren’t human. She sighs and shakes her head.

“Fine.” She breathes. 

He almost looks elated for a second but looks away before she can get a good look. A hand comes up to rub the back of his neck. “I’ve got something set up ahead. Come on.” He murmurs, beginning to walk again. 

She follows him through the wood, thinking of this parallels their first meeting. She had been running after his crest-bearing back and cursing his name; now she follows him willingly, wearing his cloak and not wanting this time to end.

The trees part to show a campsite, complete with a canvas tent. It looks military-grade, no doubt stolen, but it’s something to protect her from the cold. A little lantern glows softly, lighting the site. “It’s the best I could do.” He mumbles.

“Thank you.” Silque says. She means it. She needs rest, even if it is out in the cold. Silque pushes back the canvas flaps, draping one over the side of the tent and sits under the canopy, drawing her knees to her chest. There’s even a blanket laid down against the grass. “Should I even ask where you got it from?”

“Military encampment that was nearby.” He murmurs. “I served there when I was human.”

“Really?” She asks, hands clamping over her kneecaps. 

“Where else would a sniper work?” Python asks. 

“Oh.” She says softly, her fingers find the tassels of the cloak. “Was that where you got this?”

He looks to the cloak. “Nah. That was Forsyth’s... Lent it to me the battle before I died.” He says. “Never got to return it.”

“Should I return it on your behalf?” 

He smirks a little. “Nah. I wanna keep the bugger with me. Besides, he’s probably got more than he can count.”

Silque pulls the cloak tighter around her shoulders, feeling guilt over the stolen garment. She watches as he begins to pace the little alcove. He tells her lies to repeat, all intricate and too much. In her mind she takes his main ideas—that he lost his memories and wound up in her care—and finds what he wants to say. He fumbles for words, trying to rephrase himself. His charm is failing, not that he’s using it; she doesn’t feel the muddy mind or fuzzy thoughts. He says that these lies are his, not hers. Somehow it makes them easier to swallow, easier to commit to memory, though she wishes she had her journal and pen, it would be easier to remember that way. But pulling out notes to read from wouldn’t be convincing, she must memorize these lies. At one point she bites down hard on her lip to stay awake and begins to murmur back his lies as if they will keep her awake. A hand clutches her relic, something she’s always done like if it will keep her safe in slumber. Her head nods back a few times and the chain snaps in two, falling from her grasp. She feels cold fingers on her chin. Mila’s angels curse and die off her in her head.

Silque’s eyes flutter open, his face just a few inches from hers. She doesn’t flush, barely breathes. She catches his scent, thinking that if she is springtime, he is winter’s fetor of dead, burning wood. Her gaze flickers about him, taking note of the skin she’d cleaned the night before, holding his face in her hands and wiped away the blood and crime.

“Sleep.” He says softly, interrupting her meandering thoughts. “I’ll keep watch and makes sure no one comes by in the night.”

She stares at him for a moment, trying to find any hint that gives away a lie or motive. She tries to figure out if he’s using his charm but doesn’t feel any of the side effects. Slowly, while still holding his gaze, she eases back onto the scratchy wool blanket. She pulls his cloak over her body like a blanket. She ignores her necklace, seeing it rolled just beyond her grasp.

She watches as Python sits down beside her under the arch of the tent. Half in and half out, he rests a hand just a few inches from hers. Silque plays with the tattered edges of his cloak for a moment before focusing on his hand. Slowly, she slips hers from under the blanket, fingertips brushing against the back of his hand. Her breath catches as he stretches out his fingers, entangling with hers. She focuses on his marble lips, his stoic gaze watching out beyond the darkness. She pulls herself closer to him.

“I won’t leave until sunrise.” He promises, as if she needed that. 

She speaks quietly, a little breathily. “Sometime ago you asked if I intended to keep you.” She says quietly, staring up at him without falter, still searching for any giveaway.

“Yeah. And?” His eyes widen for a second, then soften. 

“It is my turn to ask. Do you intend to keep me?” 

His brow raises ever so slightly. His eyes flicker to her parted lips. “Perhaps.”

“That is not the answer I wanted.” She says lowly. 

He leans down, suddenly very close. His hand curls around hers. Her heart thunders in her chest, the angels screech wildly in her head as if they are being tortured. “And if I give you the answer you want?”

“We’ll see...”

His freezing hand meets her flushed cheeks, cooling her down. Lighting runs down her spine at his touch. Python tilts her chin to his, her heady gaze focuses on him for a moment. His red eyes flicker about her face, taking in every minute detail. Then, as slowly as the first flakes of winter fall upon Mila’s earth, his lips meet hers. The angels both in her mind and the relic scream at her with fury and sorrow.

And with his kiss, the ravenous frenzy begins. His cloak falls from her shoulders as she sits up, bound by his touch. His lips meet hers melodically and he gingerly tugs on her bottom lip. The sun is now long gone, night taking over for some hours. Wyrmstym’s cold grip holds Zofia tight, yet Silque feels only burning heat as his lips collide with hers again. She is breathless, clutching fistfuls of his ruined tunic in her fingers and breaking away for a lungful of air.

While Silque tries to catch her breath, Python runs his lips along the point of her chin, the curve of her jaw and to the soft skin of her neck. A hand comes up to try and push away the stiff collar of her dress, but the material doesn’t budge.

“Bugger, they knew what they were doin’ when they issued these huh...” He says both to her and himself. She laughs to herself as he fumbles with her stiff collar. The fabric doesn’t give against his hands. Silque’s hands come up to swiftly pull at the line of buttons that hold the collar around her neck. 

“So did I.” She says with a smirk. He meets her gaze for a moment, watching as his hand comes up to push a lock of hair behind her ear. His touch is intoxicating, making her weak with excitement. He comes close once again, retracing his path along her chin, cheek, jaw and down her neck. She softly whimpers with pleasure, head thrown back, staring at the canvas ceiling. She bites down on her lip hard, fighting tiny moans that will wake the forest. Over the din of crying angels in her mind, Silque apologizes to the poor soldier who is missing their shelter. Quickly, her thoughts return to him and the angels grow ever louder. Her fingers catch into the tangles of his hair and the flimsy collar of his tunic.

He pulls her out of her reverie with the graze of his teeth against her neck, as if he’s about to taste her flesh. “ _ Pyt— _ “ One of her hands files to her mouth, clasping over her gasping lips. 

“Silque,” he growls softly back. It makes him laugh, deep and rich. Her hand flies to touch the spot he’s left on her neck—a lover’s mark. Her fingertips graze indents of his teeth. It aches already. She freezes, her mind still whispering with Mila’s voice. Stop right now! Away from that devil! It cries over and over. But Silque can only stare into the vampire’s red eyes.

“You’re not using your charm are you?” She breathes.

He draws closer to her face, almost stalking like a predator. One hand cups her chin, the other hand lingers close to the curve of her hip. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

She smirks to herself. “Perhaps I am. What would you say to that?”

“Keep going.” Python says huskily. She feels his breath on her neck again, whispering into her ear. “I was about to blame it on that new dress you’re wearing. It’s been driving me crazy since we left Novis.”

_We_. Mila above... The angels wince and cry out. She pushes the Mother and all holy things out of her mind. For one moment, nothing other than him will take her thoughts. 

“Then will you be kind enough to give me a hand?” 

“‘Course.” He smirks. Mischievously, his hand snakes along the curve of her back, taking away the first layer of her holy gown. He throws it carelessly to the side as she fumbles backwards, Python quickly following after her. He draws his hand along the edge of her thigh. She gasps, his hand is caught under thick layers of her dress, but his freezing touch still manages to graze her thighs. She crawls back against the blanket; it does little to comfort her against the freezing ground. His lips meet her neck again, his fangs grazing her skin. Her body catches in a full body blush, red at every angle and pore. His roving hand does not make it any better, snaking along her hip, to her waist where it grazes a particularly ticklish spot. She can’t help but let a giggle escape her lips.

Silque wants him. By the Gods, she wants him. Like the sun wants the clouds, like the rain wants the dewy grass, like the flowers want the earth below. She needs him. 

Perhaps it is just simply fate that they are to be like this: or perhaps it is a grim omen of lust. She pulls further at the collar of her dress, the buttons beginning to come undone. She feels his clasp over hers, pulling it away. His hands swiftly pull it down so that they chime together in a beautiful sound. His hand grazes her bare shoulder, moving to the round curve of her breast that makes her breath hitch. He chuckles lowly, fuelling a fire that makes Silque want to hear it again. His lips meet her neck, moving over the steep curves and making more marks that will be covered by her collar in the morning. They mischievously slither down further, to the valley of her breasts. She gasps a little, grabbing another handful of his hair and eliciting a heady and low grunt from him. She turns her face to his, their lips reconnecting in a burst that compares to a burst of magic.

The hands of Mila’s holy claw at her back impatiently. The angels in her head tell her that she’s going too far, there is no coming back from this sin; yet, she does not care. This may be the last time she sees him and if it is, she wants to at least remember him tenderly in her arms.

Silque’s hand touches his chest, slipping along the sharp edges of his chest and rib cage, slowly finding his thigh. His voice falters for a moment as her grip tightens on it, then slithers towards his crotch. Her breath hitches as he makes a sharp mark, almost piercing her skin. He’s breathing too—curious, an old habit perhaps? She pulls away, frantically working at the belt of his trousers. She pulls his too-large tunic from it’s puckered tuck in the edge of his trousers. It’s ancient, a design she’s never seen before. If she weren’t so consumed, she would have thought of more questions to ask. Instead she focuses on her thudding heartbeat and desire that burns through her body. 

“Have you ever—“ he doesn’t finish, his lips colliding with hers again. 

Silque shakes her head, parting only to whisper. “Never.” Her voice is breathless. His hand brushes through her short hair, pushing it away from her neck, his fingers grazing over the tender spots he’s made. Another surge of electricity, a wave of fire. 

“I’ll be gentle.” He promises. 

She giggles under her breath. “Never thought I’d hear a vampire say that.” She says. 

“I’m not like most.”

“That you are,” She says, consumed by a ravenous hunger now. Her hands snake up his back, fingers entangling in his blue and black hair again. He laughs softly. She hadn’t realized her eyes are shut tight and that her nails dig into his back. 

“You’re cute like this.” He purrs softly, one of his hands brushing the side of her cheek gently. She presses her face against his cold forehead, wanting to remember his touch. Mila’s voice beats around in her mind now, the Earth Mother in her mind is furious with her. Her holy voice is quickly deafened by his breathing and her thudding heart. She wants to say something back—something stronger than a coy remark or a playful jab.

_ I love you.  _

She wants to say that. Desperately, she wants to let the words escape her lips with fervour over and over again until he tells her to shut up... or maybe says it back. But instead, Silque stays quiet, unable to catch her breath as she feels a wave of heat rush to her face. Slowly, his body draws closer to her. His roving hand pulls the edge of her skirt up to her upper thighs. Her hand pulls down the edge of his trousers. His hand moves over hers, their fingers entangling. She struggles for breath, exactly as she had when they first spoke. Silently, she prays to whatever God that favours her still, that this will not end. Silque stares into his red eyes and wonders for a brief moment, if he wants to say the same words she wants to. Instead, he lowly whispers her name, just as she loves it. And as he guides himself into her, her breath hitches and her mind full of angelic voices suddenly goes silent. 

* * *

The warm sun beats through the canvas tent, melting the icy frost. Flostym’s warmth begins to invade the borderlands, the winter season becoming shorter as the Earth Mother once again prepares to bless the land. Silque wakes up alone, the only remainder of Python is the cloak around her body and the undone line of buttons on her dress. She blinks once, twice, three times and holds the cloak as she stares at her ruined necklace. It lies beyond the blanket, nestled in the grass and dew.

She reaches for it, folding it in her cold hands. The chain, bound by holy spell, has been cut in two. Her brow furrows, Nomah had said it would protect her until the end of her days. As she stares at it, she realizes that silence that fills her mind. She pauses, listening to the chirps of snowbirds and din of the town, not far off. Her brow furrows as she does the line of buttons to her gown up. There is nothing. For once, her mind is silent: there is no words from Mila. No praise, no heavenly hum, no warnings or curses. Nothing. It is silent, save for her thoughts of him. Mila and her angels have left Silque’s mind. 

Then she remembers. 

He had been with her for Gods know how long and she only remembers finally falling asleep when he pulled the cloak to her neck and held her close to his cold body. She can barely think about it. What a  _ sin _ . His cloak is still wrapped around her body, goose pimples pricking up along her shoulders. She looks down, once-red marks now turning purple along the side of her neck and down to her breasts. She slips her arms through the sleeves and does up the line of buttons along her bust, pulling the collar up to hide her neck. Mila forgive her lost soul.

He moaned her name last night. Said it tenderly, softly; hard on the  _ k _ , just as she liked. And the electric currents that ran through her body last night still make her tremble this morning. He left her. But she remembers laying in his arms after their amorous entwine and hearing him softly say her name, just as she liked it. She had fucked the vampire. The one she was supposed to kill. 

This made things horribly complicated. She clutches at the tattered edge of his cloak for a moment, trying to focus her frantic thoughts. She can’t waste time thinking about what sins she’d committed last night. She can only think of her duty. Her job. Forsyth.

She takes one more selfish moment to hold the cloak tightly before folding it up. It is conspicuous and will catch attention; wearing it in a border town is asking for an arrow in the back from either side. She wonders if that’s how he got the slash through the crest. 

Is this a gift? Or did he forget it? If he forgot it, he’ll come back for it; she’ll see him again. One last time. No, he’ll probably just rout through her bag when she’s resting somewhere and take it back. Why would he do something nice for her? He doesn’t care about her—

But he looked at her so tender, promised to watch over her while slept and stay until morning, for as long as he could. And she feels... full, sated. Not a hunger for knowledge or a precarious interest with the undead; he had sated her desire and need to be loved and understood. Silque hides the cloak in the bottom of her leather bag and slips out from the tent’s canvas walls. She leaves it behind, good fortune for another weary traveller. 

She takes the journey into down slowly, walking along the trodden paths and marvelling at the silence in her head. As she walks, she sees workers and travellers pass by her. They eye her white robes with scrupulous gazes and look to her veil-less head. Even here, clerics are an uncommon sight. She keeps her eyes on the path ahead, avoiding the gazes of townspeople. As she presses forwards, Silque repeats Python’s lies to herself.

* * *

Forsyth is soft, just as Python said. 

Python had told her which house to go to, picked it out from the handful of town homes. The one with white shutters and ivy along the stone walls. 

The end is in sight. She doesn’t want it to come. She could turn heel and run; she’s done enough for him already, she doesn’t need to do this too. She could go back to hunting him and keep it up as a facade to continue seeing him, to stop an inevitable goodbye. Or she could confront him and ask for him to stay by her side, as he did the night before. 

But that would be selfish,  _ and  _ a violation of the Mother’s tenets. 

She takes a deep breath and then summons all the courage she has to walk to the door. Silque knocks and a woman with short hair opens the door wide enough to show a typical villager’s dress. Not who she expected, her face falls a little bit.

“Can I help you?” She asks. 

Silque stands a little taller. “I’m looking for Sir Forsyth. Would he be here?” She asks.

“Do you have business with my husband?” The woman asks with sudden severity. The door closes a little further. There is no such thing as too cautious in this part of Valentia. 

“I come with a message from an old friend.”

The woman wipes her hands on her apron before turning into the house, the door slipping open further. Two children appear behind her legs, each at the edge of her skirt. Silque smiles thinly at them but they look up with wide, terrified eyes. She worries what they have seen before. 

“Darling, you have a caller.” The woman says, taking the children by their pudgy hands. She hears boots against the floorboards a moment later, then sees a tall man take up the frame of the door. He looks tired and worn and soft, just as Python described him. His green hair is streaked with grey, a tell-tale sign of age. 

She recognizes the expression he wears: melancholy. It drags his lips down into a frown, pulls his shoulders down to slouch with loss weighing on his back.

Gods, the lies she’s about to tell. May Mila smite her down and stop her before they leave her tongue.

“Yes?” He says in a soft voice.

“You are Sir Forsyth of the Zofian army?” She asks, just as Python told her to say.

He nods, standing a little taller. Probably. The door frame grows smaller. “May I be of assistance?”

“I... I’m Silque. I carry a message from your comrade, Sir Python.”

His eyes become as big as saucers. He leers a little closer, gripping the frame of the door for support. “Is it good news?” 

She nods. Just as Python had instructed. “Yes. He lost his memory after the battle when the army thought he died.” She says. “But he is alive and well.”

Forsyth looks as though he’s about to double over. The woman, who Silque can only assume is his wife, hurries over to steady him; as if a tiny woman will do anything to help brace that massive man.

“You’re not lying are you?” She asks Silque with wide glassy eyes.

Silque can hear her begin to cry, Forsyth too. She shakes her head. “No, never. I am the one who cared for his wounds.” She says. “I tended to him with my own hands and eyes.”

The lies are too easy to tell. But the soldier cracks a smile between tears and shakes his head. Forsyth’s relief is contagious.

“The idiot’s all right?” He asks, voice growing full.

She nods. “He sent me after he regained some memories. He’s protecting a village down south and was not able to come but... He’s all right.”

Forsyth holds his head, his wife holding him tight. He reaches out for Silque, pulling her close to him. She feels both bodies wrack with tears. She feels a guilty happiness wash over her as she halfheartedly hugs back.

* * *

Forsyth’s wife, Penelope, insists that Silque stay the night. She makes a hearty stew for supper, Silque’s first good meal in ages. It fills her with warmth, fighting off the stark chill of the borderlands. And again, Silque is met with the gaze of children. Two—a girl and a boy—watch as Forsyth batters her with questions about Python and where they live now. 

_ Which  _ he assumes. Of course he would—a pretty cleric arrives at his doorstep and said she nursed the wounds of his dear friend. He has a debt to repay to that pretty cleric and her church that supplied the space, the funds, the medications to save him. Gods, if it were only that way.

“How do you stand him?” Forsyth asks with a laugh as they help clear away dishes from the table. And she quickly realizes that Forsyth thinks they are together.

And what’s worse is that Python predicted it. 

_ Fake a flush and go on with it. _ He’d said and looked away. When he noticed her red face he’d said that is all a lie to ply him. To make Forsyth believe that he’s still human, still flesh and blood and not some monster that stalks the night and kills.

Forsyth shakes his head. “Apologies Lady Silque, I did not mean insinuate...” he fumbles awkwardly.

“Do not worry. I suppose you could say there’s a certain charisma about him.” She says. “Makes him quite the character.”

Penelope snorts and Silque’s brow furrows. “My wife was also in the army around the same time. She knows of Python’s behaviour.” He explains. 

“I had to apologize to many, many women.” She says. 

Silque flushes. 

“How long d—have you known Python for?” She asks them both. Penelope excuses herself to put the children to bed.

“Penelope has known Python since she joined the army. I believe they met just before he went missing.” He explains, moving about the kitchen to put away dishes. Silque fidgets with the cloth. “Roughly twenty years, I believe.”

_ Twenty  _ years? Her eyes widen.

“I bet he looks rough. Losing your memory and gods... He must be scarred from the battle. It was a horrible one.”

She doesn’t remember seeing a single scar on his face. His skin was like marble, unblemished and perfect. And his hair... It isn’t greying like Forsyth’s is.

_How old is he?_ She wonders. What has he lied about or covered up? He’s always avoided her questions about his personal life with such blunt and quick remarks. 

“Sir Forsyth, how long have you known Python for?”

He winces and paces for a moment as she dries another plate. He holds out his hand expectantly. “All my life. About—“

Penelope returns. “Forsyth darling, poor Silque is probably worn from her journey. Let’s let her rest.”

She bites at a frown. Stopped from another answer. Gods. 

“Oh yes.” He nods quickly, taking the cloth from her. “Please, wash up and relax. Our home is yours.”

“I’m fine as I am. I would rather talk a little more.” Silque says. “I plan to leave early in the morning. I have missed too much back home.”

“Then you must rest.” Penelope urges, taking her hand and pulling her from the kitchen. The little woman is stronger than she looks. 

“Really—“

“Lady Silque you’ve come far from your home to deliver a message. It’s here and you must rest.” Forsyth says, voice sharp. It makes her stand a little stiffer. “You’ve done more for us in a day than the kingdom has in a lifetime. Who knows if the military forged his record...”

“Sir Forsyth--”

“You are welcome in our home whenever you need it.” He says. Penelope nods, adding in soft words that Silque can’t hear. “I beg of you, rest. You are an angel that heaven sent and you must return to my friend.” He laughs softly and she feels her stomach churn. “Who else will keep him from death again?”

* * *

They put Silque up in the front room of the house, sitting her in a pretty armchair. It’s all they have. Penelope apologizes all over the place as Forsyth drags out an old chest full of sheets and linens. The woman unfolds several thick blankets to cushion the chair and warm Silque. They thanked her several times before leaving her to fall asleep.

But sleep does not come. It doesn’t matter that this armchair is worn in all the right sorts and is comfortable; it doesn’t matter that she’s exhausted both emotionally and physically; it doesn’t matter that her head is finally free of crying angels and Mila’s warnings. Silque cannot sleep. 

With a blanket swaddled up to her neck, Silque listens to the creaking floorboards of the house and the silence that follows. She watches the moon come out from behind the clouds and shine into the front room. She turns her head to glimpse out the window. Moonlight floods in with enigmatic glow, lighting up the floorboards and stone walls. The leaves of the forest create shadows against the interior of the house. It is the only thing that plies her mind.

She longs for sleep. Her body screams for it but curiosity overtakes her. Just who was this vampire that she took pity upon? How old was he? Was he secretly Rigelian? All these questions and secrets rattle around in her mind and only serve to make her more awake than weary. But she time for questions has passed. Tomorrow she will leave for Novis and he will stay here on the mainland. Her debt to him his paid; this is farewell.

Silque thinks of what she will do when she gets back to Novis. She’ll probably sit confessional with Nomah or restrict herself to prayer for several days. Of course she’ll work on finishing her notes that she recorded with Python; she may be able to make them into a book under a pseudonym. Perhaps it will help someone else in a more dire situation. 

But it only makes her think of him more. It will be strange to not walk to the beach at night and sit on the shore, listening to him speak of his kind. For three years she’d hunted him, talked to him, danced with death and now it will end. It makes her wonder what will become of the rest of her life. Before she’d net Python, she was on the track to become a saint, the path set right under her feet. But now she cannot hear the voices of angels in her head and her sacred relic is broken. Has that door closed on her too, or would it open again with devotion?

Only time will tell.

She’s pulled from her thoughts by a figure in the window. She cranes her neck to get a better look. Python stares in, watching her for a moment. She swears she sees sadness on his undead face. Is he pained to part too? Or is he simply trying to commit her face to memory before he makes a run for it.

She slowly sits up in the chair, the blankets falling off her shoulder. For a moment, she forgets her confusion and anger and longs to hold him close again. But as his lips move to form the words ‘come out’, she remembers all the unanswered questions, the circles she’d run in...

This is her last chance to get them. By the Gods, does she want them. She nods her head and as quietly as she can gets up. She folds the blanket, finds her leather bag and slings it over her shoulder. Quietly, she tiptoes to the door and slips outside. She will return in the morning to say farewell to Forsyth and Penelope, but she wants answers and wants them now.

“Silque,” He whispers as slithers up beside her as she closes the door, almost jerking it shut. She throws a sharp glare over her shoulder. She doesn’t greet him like she usually does. He notices and a smile drops from his lips. “Did you tell him?”

She nods. “He believed it.” 

The ghost of a smile returns to his lips. “Good.” He murmurs. He stretches out a small sachet of marks, the price for passage home. She stares at it for a minute before turning her gaze to his. 

“Sir Forsyth said you’ve known his wife for 20 years.”

His brow furrows. “Who?”

“A woman named Penelope.” She says, taking a step closer to him. He backs away as she comes closer. “Forsyth looks much older than you.”

“He does have a couple years on me.”

“You look half his age.” She says, pacing closer like a predator. “And you did tell me that you stopped aging when you turned. How old are you?”

“C’mon Silque,” Extra emphasis. He must know. 

“I want answers.” 

“You have a book full of them.”

“Not about what you are, I want to know who you are. Who you were.” She presses. “You always avoided that in our talks. Yet you know all there is to know about me. That’s hardly fair.”

He looks away.

“Python, I want to know about  _ you _ .” She says in the sharpest voice she can muster. Her hands knit into fists. “I deserve that much after all I’ve done. And after last night.”

His eyes trail back to hers, glowering with something between sorrow and fury. He looks as though he’s about to beg her to not to continue her thought. His pale lips purse together.

“Will that get you to go back to Novis?” He asks.

She looks aghast. “What—“ 

“You’re supposed to hunt me Silque.” He says sharply. The playfulness is gone within a second’s notice. “A favour is one thing but this has gone way too far. I’ve let it go too far. I should’ve left you alone. Shouldn’t have let anything happen between us.”

She stares at him, eyes growing glassy with angry tears. “If you tell me about how long you’ve lived and what you’ve done, I’ll go back to Novis.” She says. 

“Promise?”

She nods and holds out her hand for the sachet of marks. They clink in her palm, almost like a cry. She puts them into her bag, feeling his intent gaze on her as she tucks them into her bag. “Let’s go.”

“You can’t tell me here?” She asks.

“You want the whole truth don’t you?” He asks, his brow hard and unmoving. She holds the strap of her bag tight and nods. “Then follow me.”

He turns on his heel, beginning to walk along the same path that took her into town. She will be back in the morning, in time to give her hosts a thankful farewell. She promises them in her mind when they leave the front yard.

Night makes the borderlands even more treacherous. While Python stays at her side, she feels little ease. All the tension only serves to make her suspicious and jumpy. Too many times her feet find fallen branches that crack under her feet and she jumps a little. Being without her necklace and Mila’s guidance makes it worse. She feels like she is just a child again, lost and meek without holy intervention. 

He has gotten so cold all of sudden. The night before he had the gall to touch her so tenderly--to make  _ love _ to her--and now he was telling her to leave and not come back. What changed over the course of a day? Was this only because she valued the truth? Or was her value gone now? Her use fulfilled, her charm gone and now she was nothing more than just another cleric he could drain of blood.

What if he was leading her out to kill her?

No. He couldn’t. He looked pained when he told her to leave. But that could have easily been an act, and sleeping with her could’ve been another automatic response completely. 

At last, she asks. “Where are we going?” The air begins to grow colder and colder, she reaches into her bag to pull out the cloak. 

“Outskirts of town.” He says as she wraps it around her shoulders. “There’s something you should see.”

* * *

A saint does not belong in a cemetery.

The gates of the cemetery are just as rickety as the ones back on Novis. Silque expects to feel the angels’ claws on her back, ripping her away from the cemetery, but there is almost nothing. Just minor scrapes against her back. Slowly, she reaches out to touch the iron, expecting the sizzle of her skin against the metal and to feel blistering pain flourish throughout her body. Instead she only feels a rough and cool chill against her palm. 

“Are you in pain?” Python asks, gaze heavy on her. She swears that he sounds worried. 

She shakes her head. “No. I feel nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing. I haven’t heard the angels in a while now.” She admits, running her fingers along he metal, as if it will elicit some reaction. She frowns when she feels nothing but cold, rough metal under her fingertips.

“And you’re not wearing your necklace?”

She nods. “It broke.” 

“It broke?”

“Yes. The chain is snapped.” She says. “It’s a bad omen.”

“So you’re unprotected?”

“Yes.” 

“You’re fair game for fate then.” Python murmurs. “And there’s witches at the border. They might be close.”

Witches. They are the last thing she wants to see right now. She sees him inch a little closer to her. “Better be careful then.” She says.

He scoffs. “Wish that were the prerogative.” Her brow furrows as his gaze narrows. “Why do think we’re here Silque? You wanted answers.”

“A saint doesn’t belong in a cemetery.” 

“That saint shouldn’t have been messing around with a vamp then.” He says, hands meeting the gates. They are bound with a padlock. Python frowns, places one of his bloodied hands over the lock and easily crushes it between his iron fingers. She winces at the sound.

“I still can’t enter the cemetery.” She says, voice thinning. A hand comes up to clasp around the edge of his cloak. She had grown cold and pulled it from her bag as they neared. When she tried to return it, he waved her off. 

He pushes the gates open. “There is one way to enter.” He says. She knows what he means.

“I will not revoke my oath to the Mother.” She says quickly. It is the one thing she will not do for answers. It is the only thing she has left. The gates may not hurt her, but the spirits that lie within will. And although the Mother and her angels have left Silque, she will not desert her faith in Mila.

“Then shut your eyes.” It is a command, but her mind isn’t muddy or full. He doesn’t use his charm.

Her brow furrows and her lashes flutter shut. She feels something soft against her lips, there for only a moment. A chill runs through her body, freezing her to her core. She opens her eyes. He removes his hand from her chin, the chill setting in a pit in her stomach.

He kissed her. 

It was a kiss of tenderness, of protection: something she thought a vampire wasn’t capable of. Who knew such a momentary brush against his lips could cease all thoughts in her head.

Python grabs her hand, looking away. “Don’t let go of me.” He says. When she looks down, she sees his half-burnt away finger. For once it doesn’t look gangrenous, instead like a scarred nub of flesh. She feels a jolt of pain through her own scarred flesh. “Something might take you.”

He knows the dead differently than she. Her texts and oral myths have all been wrong about vampires, who’s to say they’re the same about the dead. The claws in her back cease now. They’re now minor pinches every now and then. She ignores them, instead thinking about his hand on her cheek, his lips pressed gently against hers. A kiss, from him to her. An electric current runs through her body. His hand is freezing in hers. 

“Careful.” He warns. A root in their path. She hops over it. She watches his back, how his tunic sways when he walks. 

They are done after this. No debt left, nothing more to discuss. And too quickly they stop walking, paused before a grave towards the back of the cemetery. It is nothing more than a cross in the ground, a date against the stone. It’s caked with dirt and eroded with age.

“Is that...” she can’t finish the sentence.

He nods. “Yeah.” 

She closes her hand a little tighter around his, almost meeting his shoulder with hers. She doesn’t look at the date, instead at the lichens and moss that overtake his marker.

“I joined the army with Forsyth when I was 25. He convinced me to do it. We were stationed out here.” He explains, his voice quiet and thin. “I messed with a witch and she cursed me and then—“

“You died.” She says. “When?”

He stares at the grave.

“Python.” She says harsher this time.

“26.”

Silence falls between them. She swallows trying to find her voice. 

“Is... Was Forsyth the same age as you?” He nods and she sucks back a breath. Her hand grows loose in his. He clutches it a little harder, trying to keep her close. “He has two children and grey hair and lines in his face.”

He stays quiet again. 

“ _ Python _ ,” She says in a thin warning voice.

“Silque.” He looks to her, eyes pleading. “It shouldn’t matter how—“

“Python, has it been 20 years since you died?” She asks. 

Silence again.

“I... I care about you Silque.”

“Answer the  _ damn  _ question!” She cries out. “Answer it for once!”

His hand clenches against hers, nails digging into her flesh. He pierces her skin, blood trickling down her palm. “Yes!” He yells.

She lets go of his hand. A deadly mistake. She feels something around her throat, choking her as she cries out for the Mother. Something pierces her side, a sharp burning pain runs through her body. She looks down at her robe, watching a red mark spread through the white fabric.

She looks up at Python and he stops yelling. Her grabs her, holding her tight and in a flash, they leave the cemetery. Her eyes focus on his face. She fights for lucidity and challenges death helplessly. 

She was right—a saint does not belong in a cemetery.

Was this punishment for all the lies she’d told? To Celica, to Nomah, to the priory, to Forsyth and his wife? Surely it is Mila’s holy wrath, coming to take her sinful soul back.

She’s pulled from her airy thoughts by his hands. He holds her face in both hands. “Why’d you let go?!” He yells at her. “You’re a fucking idiot!”

“I didn’t... You’ve been dead for that long?” She fights tears. 

He nods. “I have. But it doesn’t matter I just... I don’t think I could handle losing you.” He says, staring at her wounds and fighting thirst. Python swallows hard and turns to her pack, looking for gauze, for something to save her. But instead he recoils back, her necklace guarding the satchel. He howls and she lurches for him.

“I’m afraid it’s too late.” She breathes. Silque gently holds his hand for a moment, her hands slick with her own blood. “You should go.”

“Why?” He asks.

“You have other things to do.” She says, forcing a smile. “You wanted me to go back to Novis and leave you alone after this.

His words grow fumbled. “I—It was only for your safety—I’m not good with…” He struggles then stops. “I meant it, I care about you Silque. I’m not leaving you.”

Quickly he pleads for the impossible. “Let me change you. I can make you a vampire like me and we can runaway.” He says. “Just let me save you.”

She stops, lids growing heavy. She falls back in the grass, her blood pooling against the cold earth. Her brow knits. “I can’t become like my mother. Nor will I turn my back on Mila.”

“Fuck Mila! If she really cared about you she would have protected you!” He says. “I’ll protect you, now and forever--”

“Python,” Silque says softly, her eyes focusing on him. “I won’t let you change me. Please, try to understand that.” She winces, the shock gone and the pain settling in now. “I won’t scorn you if you need to leave.”

“I already said I’m not leaving you.”

“Could I ask a favour then? Would you gather me some flowers?” She asks. “I want something to hold.”

He does so, blood stained hands touching innocent petals of forget me nots. He pulls up foxglove too and finds some yellow blooms of forsythia. As gently as he can, he takes her hands and presses the flowers into them, his fingers grazing her scar. She smiles at the buds and thanks him breathily. 

_ I’m sorry you can’t see your priory one last time.  _

He wants to say it but he can’t speak. The words are caught in his throat, blocked by the bloodlust he fights. 

“This is her punishment for me…” She breathes painfully, fighting a watery gasp. Her brow knits. “I strayed from my path. I have angered her. I knew it when I stopped hearing her voice and the angels.”

Python stays quiet. She looks to him with a dazed gaze. She swallows back fear, metallic and sour in her mouth. Her lips spread into a thin smile. “But it was worth it. My life is richer with you, Python.”

One of her hands reaches to him, her fingers entangling in his. The cuff of her robe is pulled back to show the bones in her thin wrist. Her hand wavers. He catches it and holds it as gingerly as he can. 

He knows what she’s offering. “Say goodbye to that sainthood then.” He warns.

“I was never going to be a saint. Nor would I have been happy as one.” Silque says pleadingly. “I just want to be yours now.”

His voice is barely above a whisper. “I want to be yours too.” 

Her thin smile spreads, a warm dull glow pulsing through her dying body. He glances at her wrist. She does not know about the unholy pain she is about to enter. Her syrupy blood may have him go mad. She feels his hand on her waist, just above where her dagger is hidden. 

“Then take your dagger—” 

Her brow furrows. “Why?”

“It will finish the game.” He says. “It’s no fun if you won’t be there. No point in living, if that’s what this is.”

Her eyes grow glassy. She sucks back a breath, her fingers reaching to her dagger in her robe. She clasps the marble handle of the dagger, resting it against her stomach for support. 

A handful of flowers in one hand, a dagger in the other. He drops her wrist and laces his fingers into hers, crushing the flowers. He leers over her, breathing in her soft, springtime smell for the last time. Her breathing is shallow. The ground beneath them is slick with her blood; his throat aches with such intensity. But it is not just bloodlust, it’s the burning pain of parting.

Python gently kisses her throat first, as if it will prime her for the pain. His fingers tightened against hers as if his iron grip will pull her from death. His teeth graze her soft skin, almost feral at the scent of her blood. Then, holding her hand tight, he sinks his fangs into the soft flesh of her neck. She lets out a deafening cry that sends a shiver of life down his spine. Her blood is sweet, syrupy like cherry wine he’d tasted once as a youth. But it is not enough to keep him from her horrible cries of pain and the tremors of her dying body. 

Silque’s hand rams up with what little strength she has left. She plunges the dagger into where his heart would have once been. His eyes widen as he pulls his lips from her neck. He glances down at the blade in his chest. It burns like holy fire through his body, purging the hellish curse that was set on him twenty years ago. He should be screaming bloody hell, but instead he feels an eerie calm as inky plasma begins to ooze out of the wound, spilling onto her white robe. 

“Silque...” He moans gutturally. His lips are stained red.

“Python,” She chokes out. Her eyes are glassy and barely open.

The magic of dagger works quickly, pulling him toward the underworld, the other side. He falls back to the ground, chest wheezing for the first time in years. Air courses through his dying body; for a human this would be natural, this would be full of relief, but there is none in a dying vampire’s body. There is only pain and panic.

“I could think of worse final sights.” He coughs.

She forces a smile, weak and sad. “As can I.” She breathes. “Python... I... love...”

Her eyes grow dark, staring at him lifelessly. Death is kind to Silque, leaving her beautiful even in the afterlife. Unsure of seconds or minutes or hours, he studies her face: how soft and blue her hair is and how it gently falls against the ground; the soft curve of her cheek to the edge of her jaw; the rosy flush of her cheeks fading with the passage of time, her skin becoming as pale as the clouds above; and her eyes are grey like fog along the Valentian countryside in the early morning. Death is brutal to Python, leering over him until the sunrise. He could have run, pulled the weakening dagger out of his chest and run for the cover of the trees and drank some villagers or soldiers dry to regain his strength. The area where he dropped her, just outside the cemetery, is wooded, but the trees open up just enough to let sunlight in. 

For a vampire, it is a fatal position to be in. 

But to hold her hand, to breathe the same air as she did, to be her final sight, and she, his... Well, it is sweeter and more rare than her springtime blood that still dances on his tongue. He finds comfort in her holy gaze, holding her limp hand of forget me nots, foxglove and forsythia tightly.

Python finishes the words she could not: answer to her question. “I love you too Silque.” He croaks as the sunrise comes. He sees the light brighten her heavenly face and feels its blistering warmth on his face. He feels no pain as the sun slowly turns his body into ash. 

* * *

A foot soldier is the one to find the bodies, laying just beyond the gates of the cemetery by the holy tombs. A leather bag is spilled out, provisions of shieldfish, silver marks and a prayer cord beyond a dead cleric’s grasp. She lays on an old cloak, tattered and worn and crusted with blood. Her holy white robes—the sight of Mila’s chosen—are stained with black plasma and blood. The being that lays beside her, holding her hand, is a little less than a torched body with a beautiful dagger stuck in between the ribs, a harrowing sight. There is a mark on her wrist, almost a bite. 

The ground has sucked up her blood, slick with life. Some other humanly substance stains him. But what’s stranger is that they don’t have the fetor of death, the reek of decaying bodies around them. Shocking, as they've been there for Gods-know how long.

_ A double suicide. _ The soldier thinks, and remembers that a local commander had lost a house guest recently. When the soldier leads him and his wife to the bodies, he collapses in sock of seeing his guest dead with the charred remains of his best friend. 

But as the commander and his wife mourn the loss, the soldier notices that flowers have begun to sprout up where the cleric and man lie, feeding the earth with their bodies. Buds of sweet forget me nots and lethal foxglove and hopeful forsythia perk up; the same flowers that had withered between their hands. And, as the soldier listens to the woeful cries of the commander and his wife, he remembers that for every life that ends, another one, small or large, begins. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for sticking through this au with me, its been a real journey n just some shoutouts again:  
> thanks to the hooters crew, nica, leila n ken, taz (if u havent looked at her art u are missing out)  
> anyways i hope yall enjoy it, every comment, kudos, hit, means the world to me ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎


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